


Stuck In The Middle With You

by falseneun, WhoStarLocked



Series: I Will Be [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: 5+1 Things, Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angry Cor Leonis, Apologies, Assassination Attempt(s), BAMF Cor Leonis, Bad Parenting, Best Friends, Blood and Violence, Bullying, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Childhood, Coffee, Cor Leonis Needs a Hug, Developing Friendships, Dinner, Drunkenness, Face Punching, Face Slapping, Fear, First Impressions, Formalwear, Friendship, Gen, Getting to Know Each Other, Guilt, Guns, Happy, Happy Ending, Hot Chocolate, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Katana, Loyalty, Mors Lucis Caelum Being an Asshole, Mors Lucis Caelum's A+ Parenting, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Cid Sophiar, POV Cor Leonis, POV Multiple, POV Regis Lucis Caelum, Parent-Child Relationship, Past Child Abuse, Physical Abuse, Poor Regis Lucis Caelum, Protective Regis Lucis Caelum, Protectiveness, Punching, Reckless Cor Leonis, Regis Lucis Caelum Needs A Hug, Shock, Shooting, Slapping, Sort Of, Speeches, Supportive Clarus Amicitia, Supportive Regis Lucis Caelum, Supportive Weskham Armaugh, Swearing, Swords, Teen Years, Teenage Cor Leonis, Teenagers, Threats, Threats of Violence, Verbal Abuse, War, Young Clarus Amicitia, Young Cor Leonis, Young Regis Lucis Caelum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 07:40:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26349502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falseneun/pseuds/falseneun, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoStarLocked/pseuds/WhoStarLocked
Summary: Cor Leonis' life might finally be looking up a little - he's got a job that he's good at, and he enjoys, even if it means being on the front lines of Lucis' war against Niflheim, and all the other Crownsguards don't really like him and try to make his life difficult. It's still better than life at home was.Then he gets caught in a brawl with other guards, and his life really starts to change.---------Five times Cor meets someone important in his life (not that he knows it then) and the one time they meet his father.
Relationships: Clarus Amicitia & Cor Leonis, Clarus Amicitia & Cor Leonis & Regis Lucis Caelum, Clarus Amicitia & Weskham Armaugh & Cor Leonis & Regis Lucis Caelum & Cid Sophiar, Cor Leonis & Cid Sophiar, Cor Leonis & Regis Lucis Caelum, Regis Lucis Caelum & Cid Sophiar, Weskham Armaugh & Cor Leonis
Series: I Will Be [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1860319
Comments: 46
Kudos: 67





	1. The Shield of the Prince

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! 
> 
> This story explores Cor's first meetings with the people who go on to be important in his life. First up, Clarus! 
> 
> The title is taken from the song of the same name by Steeler's Wheel. This story was partly inspired by the lyrics, but they're not really essential to what's going on for the most part. This fic does follow on from Winter Only Brings The Dark, and a lot of Cor's backstory is explained there, so this might not make much sense if you haven't read that fic. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!

Cor Leonis - thirteen-year-old Crownsguard prodigy - does not know how to back down from a fight. 

That’s what people say about him, anyway. 

It’s not necessarily that he doesn’t know how to not fight, he’s just not scared to speak his mind, no matter who he’s talking to. He’s not even that argumentative, really, but if he hears bullshit, he’ll call bullshit, and he sees absolutely nothing wrong with this approach. It’s gotten him this far in life. 

He shivers in the cool evening air, his thin uniform jacket not doing much to stave off the cold wind. The front lines are hardly warm in the summer months, let alone now in the arse-end of winter. His boots are caked with mud, and gods only know what else, but at the very least they don’t leak. Cor has learnt to be appreciative of the little things. 

“I’m just saying, I’d be a little more inclined to do this without complaining if we were ever shown some godsdamn respect in return!” 

The loud voice of another Crownsguard catches Cor’s attention. A group of them are standing nearby, bitching and whining about the cold, the political state that brought about this war, and everything in between. He only rolls his eyes at them, scoffing mentally. 

They’re at  _ war _ , there’s no time for anyone to be pandering to the nobodies. At the end of the day, that’s what they are, and that’s what Cor seems to know that the rest of them don’t. They are the pawns, the first ones to be sacrificed. No one has time to care about whether they’re happy chilling their arses off in this dump. 

Cor sighs heavily, wandering up and down a little in a vain attempt to warm up and lets their voices fade out of his focus. Standing guard overnight is shitty, and it’s only made worse by his isolation. Not a single one of the other guards actually talks to him unless they have to. Most of the time, Cor is glad for this. He’s not one for idle chatter, and he almost always ends up disagreeing with the views of the other guards. It has earned him a reputation as a contrary prick, and that meant most of them had decided to ignore him since basic training. That’s all fine by Cor usually - but now, when they’ve battled all day and all he wants is to sleep, it means that there’s no one willing to help him pass the four hour watch shift he has before he’s allowed to rest. His eyes feel gritty, and he can feel his mind beginning to wander away from the task at hand. A Niff could probably walk right up to him right now and Cor would be hard pressed to even notice, let alone do anything about it. 

But there’s no point voicing this, to him at least. They’re all tired, they all wished they’d be home by Christmas (Cor doesn’t personally care, but he understands why everyone else does), and they all would have loved to get some form of acknowledgement from the higher ups, but they aren’t going to get their wishes, so Cor figures they should all just shut up and put up. He’s the only one who thinks so. Half of the time, Cor’s pretty sure he’s one of the only guards that actually takes the job seriously. He is one of very few who aren’t second sons of Lords and Ladies of Lucis, and that definitely doesn’t help him make any friends. A lot of these posh twats grew up together and were prepared for the day when they’d be eligible to fight for the King. None of them want to be here, and it shows in their attitude to duty. 

Right now, none of them are even looking out across the bleak, desolate landscape. Cor knows they’re leaving it to him, and him alone, because there’s nothing they’d love to see more than him failing something. 

“Yeah, I’ve half a mind to go to Lord Amicitia and demand a proper bed!” Inmemor Stultus, third son of Lord Stultus, a member of the King’s small council, declares loudly. The rest of the group jeer at the comment.

Cor’s standing with his back to them - the rest of the camp sprawling out behind them - facing the empty, torn-up battlefield in front of them. 

“As if you have the balls.” He mutters to himself, rolling his eyes yet again. Considering everyone always say that young teenagers - such as himself, not that anyone here is aware of his real age - are idiots, Cor seems to be hellishly more mature and adult in his expectations than them. 

A strained silence falls over the group and Cor tenses, but doesn’t turn around. He thought he’d said that quietly enough that they wouldn’t hear him, but he can feel the collective gaze of the group boring into his back. The hairs on the back of his neck rise in response. 

“Something to say to me, Leonis?” Inmemor sneers, spitting out Cor’s name like it leaves a particularly foul taste in his mouth.

Cor straightens his stance under his scrutiny. Just as Cor opens his mouth to answer, Inmemor continues in a scathing tone, turning back to his group of cronies. 

“Thought not. Fucking commoner brat. If it were up to me, scum like that wouldn’t be allowed to join up.” 

Hot anger curls through Cor’s chest, and he’s turned to face them indignantly before he’s even fully registered the comment. His eyes are blazing with rage as he looks at the group of older guards. 

“I  _ said _ ,” Cor starts furiously. With a look of surprise, Inmemor turns back to face him. “That you don’t have the balls to even walk up to Lord Amicitia, let alone demand anything.” 

Inmemor’s eyes narrow, and he mutters an insult under his breath as he storms up to Cor. He towers over him, glaring down at him, but Cor’s not intimidated in the slightest. He raises an eyebrow, checks his fingernails for dirt as if he’s bored. 

He’s expecting the first blow Inmemor sends his way. Cor sidesteps casually, grabbing Inmemor’s wrist and twisting his arm out and away from his body, leaving his midriff exposed for Cor to kick. He does so with enough force that Inmemor falls when Cor lets go of his wrist. Cor turns away, looking back towards the battlefield they’re meant to be watching. Every guard there knows he’s right, anyway. Inmemor’s nothing but a mouthy idiot. 

A hand grips his shoulder, roughly spinning him around just in time to meet a fist. Hot blood spurts across his face as his lip is split open, but Cor doesn’t focus on it. Instead, he breaks the guard’s hold on his shoulder, but by that time the others have him surrounded. There’s a flurry of movement, and Cor trusts his gut instincts, fending off the hits he anticipates and landing blows of his own where he can. He loses himself in the pattern - block, dodge, attack - just like he used to in the illegal boxing matches at home. 

The next thing he knows, there’s angry shouting, and then he’s being pushed away from the rest of the group. Off-duty guards are milling about, looking absolutely pissed as all hell at being roused from their rest. In between Cor and Inmemor’s mob stand the Marshal, and Lord Amicitia himself. 

“What the fucking hell is going on here?!” The Marshal demands hotly, glancing between Cor and the others.

Cor’s heart is pounding in his chest, and after the adrenaline rush that fighting brings, he feels wide awake. He can feel blood smeared across the lower half of his face, and one of his eyes is swelling shut. 

“Nothing, sir.” Inmemor answers quickly, glaring at Cor. “We were just settling a debate. But it’s dealt with now, isn’t it, Leonis?” 

“You again?” The Marshal asks, turning to Cor with a glare. Of course, it’s  _ always  _ his fault.

Cor spits blood to one side, debating whether he wants to run the risk of giving his version of events, when someone else butts in. 

“Forgive me, Marshal, but what sort of debate requires seven Crownsguards to beat up one fellow guard?” 

Cor can only look over to Lord Amicitia with shock. Is he standing up for him? No one answers the Prince’s Shield, which only seems to infuriate him further. Inmemor and his friends all pointedly won’t make eye contact with Lord Amicitia, and Inmemor mutters something incomprehensible as he shifts his weight from one leg to the other. 

“Right,” The Shield sighs. “I’ll talk to this one, Marshal, you can deal with that sorry lot.” 

With that, Lord Amicitia claps a hand on Cor’s shoulder and begins to drag him away towards a tent. 

“What’s your name?” 

Cor stumbles as he struggles to keep up with the Lord’s brisk pace. 

“Leonis, sir.” He answers, stepping into the tent as the Lord holds the canvas apart for him. 

“First name?” Lord Amicitia asks, stepping in behind him. 

“Cor.” 

“Right, Cor Leonis.” He sighs, folding his arms across his chest as he levels a glare at Cor. “Frankly, I’m a little pissed off at having to deal with a childish brawl between fully-trained guards!” 

“I understand, sir.” 

“Do you?” Lord Amicitia snaps back at him. “Tell me then, Leonis, why I happened upon eight of you - who were meant to be keeping a lookout - so busy brawling you didn’t even notice my appearance, nor when I left to fetch the Marshal!” 

“I’m sorry, Lord Amicitia. It won’t happen again.” Cor mumbles, looking away. 

“Damn fucking straight, it won’t!” He sighs again, scrubbing a hand over his face. “So, what happened?” 

Cor shifts uncomfortably. “It was stupid, sir.”

“Yes it was.” He agrees. “I’m glad you realise that. Tell me what happened anyway.” 

Cor sighs. “Inmem- um, I mean, guard Stultus, he was complaining about… well, about everything, and-”

“Does he not have a right to complain, Leonis?” Lord Amicitia cuts him off. 

“Yes, sir. I didn’t stop him complaining.” Cor points out evenly. “I only told him that he’s full of shi-. Um, that he’s, um-”

“Full of shit?” Lord Amicitia finishes with a wry grin. “Aren’t all of them?” 

Cor bites back a smirk, but from the knowing look on Lord Amicitia’s face, he doesn’t do it well enough. 

“He said he was going to find you and demand a proper bed, or something, sir. All I did was point out that he wouldn’t dare.” 

The Lord considers him for a long moment. Cor meets his gaze head-on. He’s not worried about explaining his version of events. He’ll own up to fighting any day of the week. 

“How does that turn into a fight?” He asks eventually.

“He threw the first punch, sir.” Cor retorts. 

“Fine.” The Shield says. “That doesn’t answer my question, does it, Leonis?” 

Cor bites his lip, averting his gaze slowly. “I didn’t say it to him at first. But he heard me, and basically implied I wouldn’t say it to his face. Then he called me commoner scum, so I said it to his face. He tried to intimidate me, it didn’t work, so he threw a punch. I blocked it and I kicked him. I went back to keeping watch, and they all attacked me.” 

There’s a heavy sigh, and then Lord Amicitia starts pacing in the confines of the tent. Cor keeps breathing evenly. He knows he has too much of a reputation for fighting for him to get off with this. Besides, it’s the same almost every time. No one in the guard likes him, so it’s easier for the Marshal to just decide to go with their version of events. They do always have numbers on their side. Cor, and only Cor, sticks up for Cor. 

That’s the way it’s always been. 

“You know, Leonis, this war is hard enough without having to deal with in-fighting.” 

“Yes, sir. It won’t happen again, sir.” Cor says solemnly. 

Amicitia snorts. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep. It makes life a lot more difficult.” 

Cor smiles half-heartedly. “So, what fatigues are you giving me?” 

“Unlike the Marshal, I don’t just punish whoever’s in the minority, I punish who started it. And you said they started it.” 

“Yeah,” Cor scoffs, and scuffs the ground with his boot in a fit of petulance. “And the other seven of them will disagree with that version of events, sir.” 

With another sigh, the Lord hands him a potion. Cor mumbles out a thanks as he takes it. 

“How old are you, Cor?”

Cor frowns at Lord Amicitia, cautious. The Lord’s blue eyes are piercing, his dark brown hair cropped close to his head. Along with the stern expression he’s sporting, he cuts quite an imposing figure, even with his clothes muddied and armour tarnished from the fighting. He looks like a commander, someone who expects to be obeyed without question. But, unlike morons like Inmemor, Cor gets the feeling that Clarus Amicitia actually deserves the respect he gets. 

“Sixteen, Lord Amicitia.” He replies haltingly. Cor feels tense now, this meeting has taken him off-guard. He’d been expecting a short telling-off and extra chores, not twenty questions. He certainly hadn’t expected to have his story listened to, not when it’s seven vs one. Lord Amicitia has already shown himself to be far more responsible and grounded than most of the gentry he’s come across in the Crownsguard.

“You’re not the only one here that will call out obvious lies.” The Lord tells him, grinning wryly. “Tell me how old you really are, and I will ensure the Marshal does not punish you for this.” 

“If I tell you how old I am, you’ll send me home.” Cor mutters darkly, somewhat annoyed that he’s been seen through. Everyone else believes he’s sixteen, so why has Lord Amicitia so plainly said he’s not?

“The age limit does exist for a reason, you know.” The Shield sighs. Cor looks at him, taking care to keep his face void of emotion. After a moment, the Lord gives in. “Fine. I shan’t interfere with your job, or your posting, even if you are underage. You have my word.” 

“Why should I trust your word?” Cor asks before he can even think about how rude that is. He winces as he realises what he said, but Amicitia just snorts.

“Problem with all authority figures, Cor, or is it just me that you don’t trust?” 

“I don’t trust anyone who hasn’t proven themselves trustworthy, sir.” He answers honestly, meeting the Lord’s eyes. 

“Fair enough.” The Lord shrugs. “But since you’ve never met me before, I suppose my word will have to suffice until you’ve made a judgement for yourself, won’t it?” 

Cor nods, knowing that that’s not really a question he should answer. 

“I’m thirteen, sir.” He mumbles. 

“Thir-?! Fucking hell!” The Lord’s jaw drops, and Cor can tell that he’s being completely reevaluated in light of his admission. 

“What?” Cor asks, defensive. He glares at the Lord. There’s no point being respectful now if he’s about to be booted out anyway. 

“I was expecting you to say fifteen!” Amicitia explains, his incredulity obvious in his voice. “Shiva’s tits,  _ thirteen _ ? Why on Eos did you want to join up so young?” 

Cor regards Lord Amicitia with uncertainty. Is he really not going to interfere? 

“I’m a good fighter,” He says hesitantly. “I might as well fight for my country instead of just fighting assholes.” 

_ And definitely not because I need the money to keep a roof over mine and dad’s heads, and pay for the ever-increasing amount of alcohol dad likes to consume, no siree.  _ He thinks to himself.

The Lord shakes his head, eyebrows raised in wonder. 

“I can’t believe it. And the Marshal-”

“Believes the age on my enlistment form.” Cor cuts off the Lord’s question firmly. 

“Good gods, that man is an idiot.” Amicitia sighs, turning away from Cor. He sounds so done with everything in that moment, Cor finds himself smiling softly. 

“Am I in trouble, Lord Amicitia?” He asks, forcing himself to stand at parade rest.

“Clarus.” Lord Amicitia says distractedly, waving one hand half-heartedly in Cor’s direction. Cor barely has time to wonder what the correction means when he looks back to Cor, contemplative. 

“I won’t say anything.” He says gently after a moment. “I am a man of my word, if nothing else. But I want you to be a man of your word as well.” 

Cor cocks his head to one side, wondering where Lord Amicitia is going with this conversation now. 

“I want you to promise me you’ll come find me if they start hassling you again, alright?”

“All due respect, sir, but I don’t need special treatment.” Cor returns hotly, indignant anger building in his chest.

“This isn’t special treatment. I won’t have you sent home, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to pretend you’re old enough to be here, either.” The Lord sighs. “I want you to check in with me, every couple of days, so I can have some peace of mind about your safety.” 

“We’re at war,” Cor points out, narrowing his eyes at Amicitia. “No one can guarantee my safety. I could go out there and be killed tomorrow.” 

It’s the wrong thing to say. Lord Amicitia blanches, and Cor immediately ends up feeling guilty. He really shouldn’t be pushing his luck, considering Lord Amicitia has agreed to let him stay in the guard at all. 

“You’re right.” Amicitia concedes eventually. “But please, when you can, check in with me. I’m going to be keeping an eye on you from now on.” 

Cor agrees, mind reeling at how this conversation has turned out. He can hardly believe he’s not been sent packing, back to Insomnia. He’s always assumed that if even another guard found out his age he’d be out on his ear, let alone someone as high up as a Lord. Now here he is, being outed in front of the Prince’s Shield, and all he has to do is check in and he’s off the hook? Cor highly doubts it, but he keeps that to himself. After a long moment’s silence between them, Lord Amicitia’s shoulders seem to slump.

“Alright, you’d better get some rest.” 

“Yes, sir.” Cor replies, moving towards the entrance to the tent. He pulls the thick canvas to one side, turning back to the Lord as he does. “And, thank you, Lord Amicitia.” 

“Clarus. My name is Clarus. Use it.” 

Cor is stunned. For a moment he can only stare, certain that Lord Amicitia is making some kind of joke, or pranking him. He can’t be for real, can he? Cor’s a nobody, there is absolutely no way that the Shield of the future King wants Cor to call him by first name! That’s insane. 

Obviously, he gets caught in his wondrous state. Lord Amici-  _ Clarus _ , chuckles softly at Cor’s expression. He comes and takes the canvas from Cor’s hands, ushering him out of the tent with a gentle hand on his shoulder. 

“Good night, Cor. Keep your head down out there.” 

The canvas falls between them, and Cor stares dumbly for a moment. That did not just happen. He’s not still here, still allowed to be here, and for once, not in trouble for fighting. Cor walks back to his own tent and changes out of his filthy uniform in a daze. He settles into his sleeping bag, still reeling, and lets his eyes slip shut. 

The next day, he goes about his business as if nothing’s wrong. And the next day, and the day after that. He checks in with Lord Amicitia when he can, and tries to steer clear of trouble in case he changes his mind about keeping Cor’s secret and having him booted out of the guard.

It takes him a month to stop believing it will happen.


	2. The Prince Himself

Today has been shit all around. Regis is knackered after a tough day fighting, and all he really wants to do is ignore the world and sleep. He’s covered in mud, and pissed as all hell because they’ve lost too many good soldiers today, and they’ve lost ground. This war is going nowhere fast, and what makes it worse is that his father doesn’t give two shits about it. He’s just received word that he’s ordering a full retreat of Lucian forces - abandoning most of the continent to the Niflheim invasion for no other reason than because it suits him. 

Regis is furious, and just the thought of having to tell the guards and glaives in the morning is making him want to… well, break down in tears, really. There’s going to be massive backlash over this, and Regis just knows he’s going to bear the brunt of it. But there’s nothing he can do. His father’s word overrules him, and if Regis decided to say to hell with the orders Mors has given, the Captain of the Kingsglaive and the Marshal would have every right to ignore him and withdraw their men regardless. It had been difficult enough to get his father to agree to let him fight at all, so Regis knows he can’t push his luck. But still, the knowledge that there is nothing he can do for the people that will one day be his to rule over leaves him feeling despondent, but enraged. 

To cap it all off, Regis can’t even talk to Clarus about how he’s feeling, because Clarus is too busy frantically running around looking for one particular guard he’s taken a shining to.

So what if he’s a boy? Lots of Crownsguards are technically only children. Regis is only eighteen, and several of the people here are younger than him by two years. He doesn’t really get why Clarus cares so much about this one in particular, but he still trudges after his Shield as he searches the camp. He lets out a long sigh. 

Is it really so much to ask to get clean, eat something and sleep? 

“Has anyone here seen Leonis?!” Clarus asks a ragged looking bunch of Crownsguards. He’s doing a pretty good job of keeping the panic out of his voice, but Regis has grown up with him. He can tell it’s there. 

Most of the guards shake their heads, and Clarus turns away from them, facing the sprawling battlefield with despair. There are still bodies strewn across the ravaged ground. The fighting stopped barely an hour ago, and some injured stragglers are only just making it back to camp. No one has been out to collect the dead yet. 

“You better be in the fucking hospital.” Clarus mutters to himself, his hands balling into fists as he turns in the direction of the field hospital, which is a glorified gazebo.

“Clarus,” Regis moans, rolling his eyes. “Can’t this wait?” 

Clarus turns on his heel and for a second, Regis is treated to a look of absolute fury, but then Clarus’ gaze shifts to something over Regis’ shoulder, and the anger dissolves into relief. 

“Cor,” He breathes out, and begins to move past Regis to check over the guard he seems to have become obsessed with. Regis sighs yet again and lets his eyes fall shut, expecting to now have to wait five minutes before Clarus will be satisfied that this Leonis kid is alive, even though he clearly is, but to his surprise, he gets poked hard in the chest, and - affronted - Regis opens his eyes, ready to tell Clarus off, but he instead sees a guard with bright, furious, ice-blue eyes and cropped dark hair, covered in mud and blood, glaring up at him. 

If looks could kill, Regis would be dead. 

“Why are you surrendering?!” The guard spits, folding his arms across his chest. “If we withdraw now, we look weak, and the Niffs will establish bases on this continent! Why have we bothered fighting for the last nine months if you’re just gonna hand them the region on a silver platter?!” 

Regis is stunned, to say the least. No one talks to him like that, save his father and Clarus. No one else ever addresses him so rudely, or with such anger! He’s so taken aback by the brusque tone and the boldness of the guard that he doesn’t answer. His mouth falls open a little, but his words dry up in the face of such fury. 

“It’s stupid!” The guard continues when it becomes apparent Regis is at a loss for words. “The whole strategic approach to this war has been stupid!” 

Regis can agree with that, but again, he doesn’t outrank his father, and while it’s him here and Mors living it up in his peaceful crown city, it’s still Mors giving the orders. 

“We haven’t used any effective tactics, we haven’t even switched up our fighting style, even though it’s pretty apparent at this point that in battles like this, the Niffs have the advantage! We don’t stand a chance against long-range weapons! We can’t run faster than bullets, so why haven’t we changed our approach? You haven’t even tried to win, and now you’re just giving up.”

Well, he’s not wrong, Regis has to give him that. His painfully accurate rant has already drawn a small crowd, and as he glances around at the guards and glaives watching, he can feel his face flush. Some of the onlookers seem appalled, and he can already hear the whispers about Leonis’ bold stupidity, and how there’s no way he won’t be out of a job by tomorrow, but a lot more of them are looking to him in silence, waiting for answers. He looks to Clarus, hoping for some kind of intervention, and sees his friend trying and failing to wipe an impressed expression off his face. 

Shit. What is it his father always says about making and defending leadership decisions? It’s best done behind closed doors. It’s not a view Regis agrees with, he believes more in leading by example, but maybe his father has a point somewhere. He sure as hell doesn’t feel comfortable trying to justify anything in the face of all these people.

Regis looks back to the guard and plasters a strained smile on his face. “What’s your name?” 

“Leonis.” The boy replies. No title, no respect, not even a ‘sir’. It’s like he has no idea who he’s talking to. If Regis’ father ever saw that, he’d have struck him for insolence by now. 

“Right. Why don’t we discuss this elsewhere?”

Before Leonis, or anyone else, can argue with him, he walks off towards his tent. He hears Clarus fall into step just behind him, and to his amazement, he hears another set of footsteps following him. Regis hadn’t expected Leonis to have the guts to actually follow him and discuss this, but then again, Regis hadn’t expected anyone in the Crownsguard to walk up to him in the middle of camp and yell at him like he’s an errant schoolboy. 

This Leonis is full of surprises. Regis can see why Clarus likes him.

When they reach his tent, Regis lets Clarus hold back the canvas for them both and they step inside.

“Well?” Leonis demands as soon as Clarus steps in behind him. 

“Oh gods, let a man get a drink first!” Regis exclaims, sorting through the things he has strewn over a small table. He’s going to need everything in order to show his father, so he may as well start tidying now. He settles himself in a chair, and gestures for Leonis to sit opposite him, then gets a thermos out of the armiger. 

Leonis watches him pour a cup of tea, and his lips curl in disdain. 

“Everything is better with tea. Would you like some?” Regis says, looking up at the guard. On closer inspection, Leonis looks young. Too young. The way he holds himself, and the sneer on his face all screams of youth - but that awkward stage of youth, like he’s old enough to not be a child anymore, but not old enough that adults take him seriously. His sulking is too obvious for him to be sixteen. 

“I’d prefer some answers.” Leonis answers bluntly, still scowling at him with his arms crossed. 

“Of course.” Regis offers him a smile. “Do you play chess?”

“I understand how to look at the bigger picture, if that’s what you’re asking.” Leonis sneers at him. 

_Okay, so he’s not an idiot who managed to hit the nail on the head by chance_ , Regis thinks to himself, smiling. “So, in chess, who is in charge?” 

Behind Leonis, Clarus shifts his weight and rolls his eyes. Regis can’t help but find his friend’s annoyance amusing. They’ve both been treated to this lecture far too many times already. It’s one of very many lectures given to them by Mors and Clarus’ father, Aleam, over the years that has actually been useful. 

“The queen is the most powerful piece.” Leonis replies hesitantly. His scowl lessens into a look of uncertainty. 

“Yes, but we’re looking at the bigger picture. Beyond the chess board, who is in charge?” Regis asks, and he can’t help but smirk as Leonis begins to just look confused. 

“I don’t get it.” He says, and to be fair to him, he doesn’t sound sullen about having to admit defeat. 

Regis sips at his tea. “Who decides what the queen does?” 

“Well, the player… but that’s like saying the gods are in charge!” Leonis huffs. 

“I suppose it could be, though it wasn’t the gods I had in mind.” Regis admits. When he first got this lecture he’d drawn the exact same conclusion, and proceeded to simply declare that the gods ordained everything whenever he got into trouble. It had worked - as no one dared be blasphemous - up until he tried it on Mors himself, who simply told him that if his poor behaviour was ordained, so was the slap Mors gave him for it. That had been thirteen years ago. “Who else is there who’s more powerful than anyone actually on this battlefield?” 

For a long moment, Leonis just frowns at him. Then, realisation dawns on his face and he mutters. “You could have just said your father ordered it in the first place.” 

Ah, there’s the sullenness. Regis glances to Clarus and they share a smile.

“How do you know we’re withdrawing, anyway? It hasn’t been announced yet.” Clarus asks, sidling closer to the table and stealing Regis’ tea. Regis pouts, but Clarus just ignores him, focuses instead on Leonis. 

“I overheard the Marshal and the Captain talking about it.” Leonis says slowly. “It’s still stupid.” 

“Yes, well. Go tell that to my father.” Regis sighs. “But if it’s any consolation, I do agree with every point you made.” 

“But not the delivery.” Leonis snorts derisively. 

“I’d have preferred it if you’d waited til after food to yell at me, but I actually admire you for that.” Regis says, standing up and snatching his tea back from Clarus. Leonis looks up at him, eyebrows raised and eyes wide. “Not many people have the guts to talk to me like I’m a normal human being, let alone lecture me.” 

“So, you don’t care that I yelled at you in front of your men?” 

“In front of them, a little bit. Yelling at me? Not at all.” Regis confirms with a grin. He looks at the guard again, contemplative. “What’s your first name?” 

“Cor.” 

“Lionheart. Well that explains why you’re more confident than any other guard I’ve met.” Regis grins.

“What?” Cor asks, looking at him in confusion. Right. Commoners probably don’t get taught the ancient language. 

“Your name. Cor Leonis - it means lionheart.” He explains. It’s a good name, a strong name, and Regis has a feeling that in the not-too-distant future it will be a memorable name. “Anyway, I was going to say, if you feel comfortable enough to speak your mind around me, then I would value your insight.” 

“Hold on, what?” Clarus asks, looking at Regis like he’s grown a second head. 

“Is that… some kind of job offer?” Cor asks slowly, regarding Regis sceptically. 

“Yes. I’d like you to be my personal guard.” Regis says with a bright smile. 

This whole encounter has been enlightening to him. He hates being around guards that pussyfoot around him or bend over backwards to try and win his favour, but are too scared to actually befriend him. Cor has a natural confidence, a disregard for formalities, that can’t be taught. It’s either there in a person or it isn’t, and yes, he might need some guidance in how to address certain people, and how to go about voicing his opinions less confrontationally, but that is stuff Regis can teach him. He’d much rather have a mouthy guard who gives him honest advice than someone who daren’t disagree with him over anything. 

“Regis, might I speak to you about this?” Clarus asks, arms folded. Regis rolls his eyes but nods, and without even being asked, Cor excuses himself and goes outside. 

“What the hell?” Clarus asks as soon as the canvas falls shut. “What are you thinki-”

“I’m thinking he has potential.” Regis interrupts smoothly. “I’m thinking that, like you, he’s not afraid to tell me what he actually thinks, and he seems to have a good head for strategy. Given time and some extra training with us, he’ll make an excellent guard. I didn’t think you’d object, given how much time you spend worrying over him. I actually thought if he’s working closely with you anyway, then you can check up on him more easily. Is his fighting up to par?” 

“I don’t bloody know, I’ve never seen him fight properly!” Clarus snaps back at him. He exhales slowly, pacing as he thinks through Regis’ reasoning. 

“Why are you so concerned with him, anyway, if it wasn’t because you were sizing up a potential protégé?” 

Clarus sighs, scrubbing one hand over his chin wearily. In a quiet voice, he admits. “Because he’s so young.” 

“Mm. I figured he’s underage. I’m not entirely sure how he’s convinced the Marshal otherwise. Still, I guess a handful of months doesn’t really make a difference.” Regis muses, tapping his fingers on the desk in front of him while he waits for Clarus to form an opinion. 

It takes a while, but eventually Clarus comes to a stop opposite Regis. “Fine. Ask him to be your guard, on the condition that his combat skills are assessed and he passes.” 

Regis grins.

“Cor, come back in!” He calls, and when Cor has stepped back inside, Regis continues. “So, when we get home, Clarus is going to assess your fighting skills, but assuming you pass that, I would like you to be my personal guard. Do you want the position?” 

Cor glances between him and Clarus, a calculating look on his face. “I’d be honoured. May I ask why you’re offering?” 

“Clarus and I agree that you’ll be good in the role, since you clearly have no problems communicating exactly what you think to people of higher standing than yourself. We’ll work on how to do it in a more formal setting, but that’s nothing to worry about.” Regis explains, grinning. He likes getting his own way. 

“So he didn’t break his promise?” Cor asks, nodding towards Clarus. 

“What promise?” Regis asks, turning to look at his friend. “Clarus, what haven’t you told me?” 

“Now you’ve done it.” Clarus mutters before turning back to Cor, completely ignoring Regis yet again. “No, I didn’t. As I said, I am a man of my word.” 

Cor nods, seemingly satisfied. 

“What promise?” Regis asks again, voice more stern. 

“He’s not going to let it go until you tell him.” Clarus says, clapping a hand on Cor’s shoulder. “And really, if you’re working for him, he has a right to know.” 

Cor shifts his weight, biting his lower lip, but he doesn’t say anything. 

“It won’t affect the job offer.” Clarus continues, voice firm. “And he’s already guessed you’re underage.” 

“Oh, is that all?” Regis huffs, disappointed. For a moment there he thought there was some juicy gossip to be had. “Yes, I really don’t care if you’re fifteen.” 

“I’m not.” Cor says quietly. 

Regis frowns, looking between Cor and Clarus, but it seems Clarus isn’t going to clear this up for him. “But-” 

“I’m thirteen.” Cor interrupts. 

“Lord Ami- _Clarus_ ,” Cor corrects himself when Clarus glares daggers at him. Clarus has always hated being addressed by his title. “Agreed to keep it quiet for me, though I have no idea why.” 

“Me neither.” Clarus snorts, and returns the smile Cor shoots him. 

Regis can’t believe what he’s just heard. How is their Marshal so incompetent as to let a thirteen year old slip into the ranks? Fucking hell, every person here has been on these front lines for nearly nine months! They’ve let a boy - a literal child - fight in a war for nine months, and no one has noticed?! 

Fucking hell, now Regis understands why Clarus was so pissed when he asked if looking for Cor could wait. 

He looks at Clarus in disbelief, and his Shield is smirking at him. 

“Good gods above.” Regis says eventually. “That’s just…” 

There are no words. None. Regis can’t think of a single thing to say to that revelation. When it becomes apparent to them that Regis doesn’t actually have an end to that sentence, Cor speaks up again.

“So, this new job?” He asks, looking between Regis, who’s still gobsmacked, and Clarus. “Do I have to inform the Marshal, or-”

“No, leave the Marshal to me.” Clarus cuts in. “I still need to talk to that old fool about the other guards in that idiotic fight of yours. You go get cleaned up, and report to me tomorrow morning, okay?” 

“Yes, sir.” Cor replies. He leaves the tent without another word. 

“Thirteen?” Regis whispers weakly. 

“Thirteen.” Clarus confirms. “Now do you see why I’m keeping an eye on him?” 

Regis nods. “I think, from now on, so will I.” 

“Still. Your guard?” Clarus asks. “You know what your father’s going to say. If he heard him speak to you like that…” 

Yes, well. That’s why he’d need to work on how to voice opinions in formal settings. Regis just shrugs. It’s going to take them a week probably to get anywhere near Insomnia. That’s more than enough time for Cor to learn the basics of formal address. 

“To be honest I don’t really care what my dad thinks.” Regis says nonchalantly. “I like him.” 

“Good.” Clarus answers. “I like him too.”


	3. The Hand of the Prince

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! 
> 
> Three chapters in three days?! That's some kind of record for me! But you all have Falseneun to thank, because they made me awesome art over on tumblr (Check it out on tumblr - @whostarlockeda03 and on Falseneun's blog, which you guys should go dump all the love on, because their art is just amazing!!! (Thank you again!)) and it made me so happy I'm giving you this chapter early! 
> 
> With that, please enjoy!

Weskham Armaugh, the Hand of the Prince, is not someone Cor ever wants to meet. The posh fuck didn’t join his prince on the battlefield, and that, in Cor’s opinion, has told him more than enough about the kind of man he is. He has accepted that he will meet him, since he is now Prince Regis’ personal Crownsguard, but he’s not looking forward to it. 

“Wesk says he’ll have cookies waiting for you.” Clarus tells Regis, hanging up from the phone call he’d been on. 

“Oh good,” Regis smiles. “I’ve missed his cookies.” 

Clarus smirks, rolling his eyes fondly. Cor watches the interaction in silence. They’ve settled into camp for the night, and Regis has dragged Cor over to the tent he shares with Clarus to go over the formal terms of address they’ve taught him. Well, that’s what Regis had said it was for, so far it’s just been them asking Cor questions about his life. 

“So anyway,” Regis continues like they hadn’t stopped for a half-hour phone call. He must think Armaugh’s cookies are fit for the gods though, if how much brighter he seems is any indication. “Where was I?” 

“Asking me pointless questions.” Cor answers dutifully, not bothering to try and mask his boredom. They’re just one day away from Insomnia now. He still has a lot to do before he can crash for the night, and getting a promotion out of being unfailingly rude has not won him any favours with the other guards. They’ve graduated from just ignoring Cor to deliberately trying to make his life difficult. Cor just knows he’s going to go back to his tent and find his sword oil and metal file gone, because the guards he’s sharing with know that he needs to sharpen his katana tonight. Given that it’s the last night, they’ll probably just fuck around with all his stuff. He’ll probably go back to having no clothes, and find his weapons being traded among them. They’re twats like that, but he’ll get them back. 

Regis purses his lips at him. “Wanting to get to know the person working for me is not pointless.” 

Cor bites back a sigh, instead just watching the prince with disinterest. “You could just ask the Marshal for my file.” 

“What do you think Clarus is reading?” Regis asks. 

Taken aback, Cor turns to look at Clarus, who’s gone back to sitting on his camp bed. He is holding a manilla file, but he’s chuckling at Cor’s expression. He looks back to Regis, not sure how to feel about them reading about him. For all that he suggested it, knowing it’s actually happening is making his skin crawl. 

Whatever Regis sees in his face makes him smile. “Your file tells me about your capabilities, but I want to know _you_. As my guard, you’re gonna be spending a lot of time with us, so it would be nice if we could build a friendship.” 

Oh. A friendship. Cor hasn’t really ever had those. He doesn’t really know what friends do, or how they act. Again, something must show in his face, as he watches Regis’ smile grow slightly sad. 

A weird sharp feeling cuts against Cor’s chest at the look. It reminds him of the way he always felt in primary school when his teacher would excuse him from making mother’s day cards and every other kid in the room would turn and stare. He fidgets in his chair, looking away from Regis’ gaze. 

“Is your birthday correct here?” Clarus asks, tapping the file. “Bar the year, of course.” 

Cor glances back to him, still uncharacteristically uncomfortable. “Yes.” 

“Ah, so next month you’ll only be two years underage, huh?” Clarus says, grinning wryly as he turns back to the file. 

“We need Wesk to bake a cake.” Regis declares suddenly. Cor turns back to him, one eyebrow raised. Where has that come from?

“For Cor, not you, you greedy shit.” Clarus replies without hesitation. 

“Well that’s rude. You always have at least two slices of Wesk’s cakes.” The Prince retorts, but there’s no real anger in his voice. “What kind of cake do you like, Cor?” 

“Don’t really eat it.” Cor answers honestly. 

“Wait, you don’t like sweet things?” Regis asks, scrutinising Cor. 

He can only shrug. “Dunno. Just don’t really buy cakes and stuff.” 

“But surely you must’ve had cake for previous birthdays?” Regis presses, leaning forwards on his makeshift desk. 

Again, Cor shrugs. “No, not really. I don’t celebrate it.” 

Regis gives him an appraising look. 

“Look, I don’t really want to talk about my birthday.” Cor says, snapping unintentionally. 

“Why not?” Regis asks. 

“I just don’t!” Cor says, bristling. He doesn’t like people getting all up in his business, and he really doesn’t want to sit here and explain to the future king that he inadvertently killed his mother on his fifth birthday. Realising how aggressively that came out, Cor sighs, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Look, I’m dead tired, and I’ve still got stuff to do for tomorrow. Can this wait?” 

Regis’ expression softens, and when he glances at the time, he gives Cor a sheepish grin. “Of course. See you tomorrow.” 

Cor smiles gratefully and gets up. “Thanks. Sorry for snapping.” 

“It’s okay. Cor, please remember what we’ve discussed about how you address me for tomorrow.” Regis sends him a pleading look as Cor leaves. Cor smiles and nods again. 

He gets back to his tent and yep - all his stuff has oh so mysteriously disappeared. This is going to be a long night.

* * *

“Wesk!” Regis grins, waving at his friend to get his attention. Cor watches with disdain as Weskham Armaugh comes down the steps towards them, smiling brightly. 

“Regis, Clarus!” He greets them warmly, pulling both Prince and Shield into a hug. “Congratulations on not dying.” 

Weskham grins as he releases them, and they both laugh with him. Cor stands one step below and slightly to Regis’ left. He just manages to turn his eye-roll into a scan of the area, not that he’s expecting a threat on the Citadel steps. 

“And this must be the infamous Cor Leonis.” Weskham says. Cor snaps his eyes back to him. Yeah, he probably should’ve paid more attention to Regis’ formality lessons. He has no clue how he’s supposed to address the Prince’s glorified babysitter, and Armaugh’s probably the snotty type of prick who will be massively offended if he gets it wrong. 

He nods, and offers the guy a hollow smile, then pretends to go back to checking the area for threats. 

“Pleased to meet you.” Armaugh says pointedly, and Cor grits his teeth. He’s not helped any by Regis and Clarus sharing a knowing smirk as the silence stretches on. 

“Oh, this is priceless.” Clarus mutters, trying to stifle his laughter. Cor shoots him a glare, but it’s ignored. 

“Have you, by any chance, forgotten everything I taught you?” Regis giggles, eyes sparkling bright with humour. 

“Not _everything_ , your Highness.” Cor spits out, just to prove a point. 

Regis throws his head back and cackles. 

Armaugh frowns, looking between Cor and the seemingly delighted Prince with confusion. 

Fuck it. It looks like neither Regis nor Clarus is going to help him out here. He’ll deal with it Leonis style - blunt and truthful. 

“I don’t know how I’m meant to address you.” He says plainly, looking at Armaugh. 

Armaugh looks back to him with a surprised expression. “Oh. I see.” 

Cor braces himself for a lecture, but it never comes. 

“Friends call me Wesk, but you can call me mister Armaugh if you’d prefer.” 

Cor looks back up cautiously. “You don’t have a title?” 

“Nope.” Wesk smiles at him, and when Cor meets his gaze, his eyes are kind and warm. There’s no harsh judgement, or disgust, or anything. Huh. “Ignore these jackasses. I know it’s hard to learn all the titles when you didn’t grow up with them.” 

Cor offers him a tentative smile. He’s still not convinced that Armaugh is someone he’ll get on with, but he’s obviously not as much of a stuck-up arse as Cor had been anticipating either. 

Regis and Clarus manage to quiet their laughter, but they still look far too amused as they make their way into the Citadel proper. 

“What happened to your uniform?” Wesk asks him as they reach Regis’ rooms. Cor hesitates on the threshold, not sure if he should stand guard outside, but before he can even ask, Clarus waves him in. 

Cor glances down at his clothes in confusion. There’s a little mud on his boots, but that’s all he can see. He’s about to reply with an arsy remark about washing facilities on the front lines, but as he opens his mouth, Wesk taps at his right shoulder. Cor cranes his neck and finds that the shoulder seam is ripped slightly. He closes his eyes in frustration for a moment. 

When he went to recollect his belongings from the other guards in his unit - almost all of them between the ages of sixteen and eighteen, and with the mental attitudes of seven year olds - they’d not made it easy for him. His weapons had been easiest to reclaim, since no one actually wanted to get in trouble for damaging a weapon. His uniforms, on the other hand, had become a free-for-all. Cor has three uniforms - the one he’d been wearing at the time is now caked in mud, sitting in his kit bag waiting to be washed, the second is now little better than rags, because apparently that’s the level that the other guards have sunk to. Cor hadn’t been surprised in the slightest to learn that it was Inmemor Stultus’ dumb idea to hack his clothes to bits with his katana. The third one, he’s wearing now, and he thought he’d managed to get it back unscathed, but apparently not. 

“I’ll fix it tonight.” Cor mumbles, adding it to the ever-growing list of shit he has to do once he gets home. Oh gods, and his father is going to be there. That’s going to be such fun. He can’t help but pull a face at the thought, and although Wesk looks at him curiously, he doesn’t ask. 

* * *

Cor will admit, his skills with a needle are shoddy, and while he does manage to fix the tear in his shoulder, it’s bumpy and weird. Whatever. It’s the best he can do until he has the money to buy a new spare uniform. That would’ve been a lot easier if he hadn’t come home to find that the rent for the house had increased, and his father’s drinking has gone up in price as well. When he opened the door, the first thing Tristis had said to him was:

“ _I owe fifty gil to the corner-store, and eighty to the landlord of the Old Inn._ ” 

Cor had already known that his dad doesn’t really care all that much, but it still stings like a bitch. He’s been at war for nine months. He could’ve _died_ , and the first thing his dad wants is money? Cor hadn’t realised his dad still had the ability to hurt him like that, but apparently, he is wrong. 

Suffice to say that even after a glorious hot shower and a sleep in an actual bed, Cor is still pretty fucking moody when he gets to work the next morning, so when Wesk eyes his shitty repair job and tsks lightly, it rubs him up the wrong way. 

“If you’re so bothered, you fix it!” He huffs, glaring at the chamberlain. 

Wesk raises his eyebrows, clearly taken aback by the outburst. He looks affronted. Cor doesn’t care at all. He knows fuck all about Cor’s life, so in Cor’s opinion, he can quit the judgemental shit. 

“Ooh,” Clarus says from across the room. “Someone’s tetchy in the mornings. You’re almost as bad as sleeping beauty himself.” 

Wesk snorts, backing away from Cor. Regis mutters a half-hearted protest against the nickname, but he’s still mostly asleep at his desk.

Cor doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he stands just inside the door of Regis’ rooms and broods while Wesk brings Prince and Shield up to date on current affairs of the crown. By the time they’ve finished, Cor is feeling slightly guilty about taking out his hurt and anger on Wesk, but not enough that he’s about to apologise. 

For the most part, he is left to mind his own business, which suits him perfectly. Then Clarus drags Regis down to the training halls and he follows behind them. Wesk falls into step next to him. Cor spares him a glance, but that’s all. 

“I didn’t mean to cause offence earlier.” Wesk murmurs, just audible over Regis’ loud protests. 

“You didn’t.” Cor replies stiffly. He really doesn’t care if his uniform is patched tattily - quite frankly it has nothing to do with how well he can do his job. What he hates is people caring about dumb shit like that. “I was out of order to speak to you like that.” 

“Oh, don’t worry about it.” Wesk chuckles lightly. “I forget that not everyone is a morning person like myself.” 

Cor actually doesn’t have a problem with getting up early, but he doesn’t correct the assumption. “Still, I shouldn’t have said it.” 

“Well then I forgive you.” 

Cor tries not to scowl. It probably isn’t meant to sound condescending, but it does anyway. He doesn’t get a chance to reply, as they reach the training hall, and Wesk settles himself on a bench on the side of the room. In a small flash of blue light, a stack of files appears next to him, and he picks up the first one and begins to read. Cor has heard about the Lucis Caelum armiger before, but he’s never seen it used. He’d thought it would be more noticeable than that. 

Clarus follows his gaze and smiles. “He likes to train separately.” 

He pretends that’s what he was wondering about and nods, beginning to stretch out his muscles as Regis and Clarus do the same. He knows this training session is going to be about assessing his skill level. He’s not worried, but a small part of him is anxious about impressing them. Despite his moodiness, and his misgivings about the sympathetic look Regis had given him two nights ago, the idea of being _friends_ with them has nestled itself in his head, and he doesn’t want them to be disappointed in him. They decide to fight each man for himself until there’s one left standing.

He needn’t have worried at all. It takes him fifteen minutes to get Regis in a position where he has to concede and tap out, and only another ten before he’s done the same to Clarus. Cor grins like the cat that got the cream though. It’s so much better than training with the other guards. For one, he’d actually had to work for that victory, and he can tell that Regis, at least, hadn’t been putting all his effort into it. After one fight, Cor has seen enough to know that he can learn a lot from them, and he says as much as he offers Clarus a hand up. 

“There’s things we can learn from you too.” Wesk comments from the sidelines. Cor hadn’t realised he’d been watching. “I’m not convinced that the Marshal taught you all of those tricks, since half of them aren’t taught to guards until they get into more advanced training, and some of them I’ve never seen at all.” 

Cor shrugs. Hmm, how did he explain the training he’d received back when he’d been illegally entering street fights for money? “I had some training before I joined, from a… family friend.” 

Clarus grins, getting a water bottle from the armiger. He offers one to Cor, and he takes it gratefully. “They taught you well, whoever they are.” 

“Does that mean I can keep him?” Regis asks, smiling hopefully. Cor lets the possessive language slide. He gets the impression that Regis doesn’t actually see himself as above Cor - at least not in a derogatory way. 

Clarus rolls his eyes. “Yes, you can keep him.” 

Regis pumps his fist, grinning madly, and Cor can’t help but grin as well. 

* * *

After three weeks working closely with him, Cor still doesn’t know what to make of Wesk. He’s obviously not the stuck-up arsehole that Cor had thought he was, but he still feels slightly on edge around him, like he might need to defend himself at a moment’s notice. 

He knows why. 

Wesk is just so _nice_ , all of the time. He is unfailingly polite, and when he does accidentally upset Cor, he always finds time to apologise to him, and he sounds genuinely sorry when he does so. He takes an interest in Cor - not that Cor appreciates that much - and he goes out of his way to help him adjust to his new role. He points out important lords and ladies, and reminds him of how to address certain people. And - most amazingly - he does all of this without pissing Cor off. Not once does he feel like he’s being talked down to, or treated like a child. Wesk even took being let in on the secret of Cor’s real age in his stride. Cor has never met someone like that before, and he’s almost certain it’s got to be an act. 

On the morning of his fourteenth birthday, he gets into the Citadel and finds Wesk on the steps, clearly waiting for him. 

“Good morning.” He says, smiling as always. 

“Is it?” Cor grunts, because as always on his birthday, he feels like utter shit, and he can’t draw his thoughts away from the upcoming anniversary of his mom’s death. 

“Well, it is for me.” Wesk replies, walking next to him as they continue to make their way inside. He doesn’t say anything else, and Cor slowly comes to a halt in the corridor. Wesk stops a few steps ahead of him and looks to him in question. 

“What’s with the meet and greet?” Cor asks. 

“Oh, did Regis forget to tell you?” Wesk sighs, rolling his eyes fondly. “He’s made you an appointment with his tailor, so you can get a suit for formal events.” 

“Wouldn’t I just wear my uniform for those?” He questions, suspicions aroused. Cor is slowly getting to grips with this whole friendship thing, and he prays they aren’t doing something dumb, like planning to celebrate today with him.

“Not always. If we have to attend events in Accordo and Tenebrae, it can be taken as a lack of trust and goodwill to have uniformed guards, so you need a suit.” 

Cor huffs, but he starts walking again, letting Wesk lead him deeper and deeper into the Citadel. But then, a thought occurs, and he stops dead in his tracks again. 

“Am I gonna have to pay for this?” He asks, trying to mask his nerves. He doesn’t know much about suits, but he can’t imagine that the royal tailor works cheaply. He’s not got enough yet for a new uniform, let alone shelling out for this. 

“Er, no.” Wesk answers him calmly. “Regis has already done so, I believe. He thinks it would be wrong to ask you to spend money on something you only need because of him.” 

“Right. And would he do that for any other guard?” 

Wesk gives him an amused smile. “Yes. In case you haven’t noticed yet, Regis is remarkably soft with people unless he has to be otherwise.” 

“Sorry. It’s just, I don’t need any special treatment, you know?” He continues to walk, expecting an answer, but Wesk holds his tongue. Before Cor can try and decipher what that means, they’ve arrived, and he’s ushered behind a screen and told to strip. Wesk takes his uniform from him, and Cor doesn’t get time to worry about much else while the tailor gets up close and personal with him. He’d never realised being measured for a suit could be so invasive. The man has him try on a stock size, then starts making alterations and pinning the material in place, all while muttering to himself about how skinny Cor is. 

Just when Cor thinks it’s all over, the man starts discussing materials, and colours, and patterns, asking Cor for his preferences, and when Cor says he has none, the tailor’s face gets almost stricken. He hastily starts showing Cor sample swatches and then launches into a long-winded explanation of what will suit Cor best. 

Cor is in way over his head, so he goes along with the tailor’s choices just to speed things up. It’s been nearly an hour and a half before Wesk reappears with his uniform. Cor snatches it from him and dresses as quickly as he can, and from the amused look Wesk gives him, his discomfort had been obvious. 

They’re halfway back to Regis’ rooms when Cor glances over his right shoulder to watch someone as they walk past, and out of the corner of his eye, he realises that the stitching on the shoulder of his jacket has been redone, only much more neatly than his repair. He stops, staring at it in wonder, and prods the material gently. That doesn’t make any sense. He hasn’t redone it, and no one else gets hold of his uniform, except just now when… 

“Wesk,” He says softly, still looking at the jacket. “Did you do this?” 

When he looks back to the adviser, Wesk is fidgeting awkwardly, an air of nervousness about him that Cor’s never seen before. 

“You told me to fix it if it bothered me.” Wesk laughs nervously in lieu of an answer. “Please don’t be offended, I didn’t mean it to be rude or -”

“Thanks.” Cor cuts him off gently. “Really. I appreciate it.” 

“You’re welcome.” Wesk smiles, instantly calmer in light of Cor’s gratitude. “If it gets torn again, just bring it to me. I don’t mind fixing it.” 

“It’ll save me having to buy another.” Cor smiles as they continue walking. 

Cor doesn’t know what to say, really. It’s only a small gesture, but no one has ever done something like this for him before, and it makes him feel warm and pleased and happy. He wonders if this is what friendship feels like, but he doesn’t quite know how to phrase the question so he leaves it be, and they walk the rest of the way in companionable silence. 

“Oh, fair warning.” Wesk says, one hand on the door to Regis’ rooms. “It’s my understanding that you don’t normally celebrate today, but I’m afraid Regis insisted on getting you cake and a present, though Clarus and I did talk him down from an all-out party.” 

He watches Cor closely for a reaction, not making a move to open the door. Cor sighs, but he smiles nonetheless. It would be weird, having someone make a fuss of him, but he can’t hold it against them. It’s not like they know why he hates his birthday, and all three of them have gone out of their way to try and make him happy. He’s grateful. 

“I’ll live.” He says.

Wesk just smiles again and pushes open the door. He has to admit that his assumptions about Wesk were massively wrong. Cor finds that he doesn’t really mind being wrong as much as he thought he would. He sort of hopes he’s wrong about some other stuff as well, like Wesk’s kindness being an act, and how horrible he’s going to feel celebrating his birthday with these people he tentatively calls his friends. He supposes he’ll find out as he steps into the room. 

_“Happy birthday!”_


	4. The... Mechanic?!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Sorry I didn't manage to get this posted yesterday, life got in the way, and apologies because this is a fairly short chapter, but every time I tried to lengthen it it felt too forced.
> 
> Fair warning, there is a bit of tough love in this chapter, see end notes for specifics. 
> 
> Other than that, please enjoy!

“Ain’t you a little young to be a Crownsguard?” 

“Aren’t you a little old to be alive?”

Cid barks out a surprised laugh and looks at Regis, who’s leaning against the regalia, watching them with a grin. He hadn’t believed Regis when the Prince had told him he’d found a reckless young teenager in the guard willing to give him attitude. 

“Touché, kid.” 

“I’m not a kid.” Cor scowls up at him, arms folded across his chest. He looks every inch the moody teenager he is, and against his better judgement, Cid snorts in response. 

“Uh huh, okay.” He says, turning back to his tools. “So, what do you need from me today, Highness?” 

Cid ignores the furious glare he gets from the kid for dismissing him, and turns to Regis. 

“The tyres are getting bald, and just a general service, if you don’t mind, Cid.” 

“Right. Let’s take a look at this baby.” 

He shoves Regis out of the way and pops the bonnet. “Hey kid, make yourself useful, go get me some tyres, will ya?” 

He points towards the back room of the garage where the tyres are stored. It’s all marked out by car back there, so he should have no problem finding the right ones for the regalia. Cid sets to work checking the oil and coolant levels, but he’s not very far into it when a surly voice cuts into his concentration. 

“I’m not a slave. Get them yourself.” 

To his left, Regis snickers. 

Cid turns around and levels a glare at the bratty little guard, and is mildly surprised at the heat in the look the kid gives him back. Unlike most people Cid glares at - up to and including King Mors himself - the kid doesn’t look even slightly phased. 

“Would ya be so kind as to go fetch me the damn tyres?” Cid growls out, put out by the show of defiance. 

“No.” Cor replies bluntly, arms still crossed. 

Cid looks across at Regis, but the Prince doesn’t seem to be about to intervene at all. His eyes are bright with mirth, and Cid suddenly gets the impression that the sole reason he brought this kid and not Clarus with him is so he could watch the argument he’d obviously anticipated. 

“Right.” Cid sighs, cracking his knuckles. Cor only rolls his eyes. “See kid, this is my garage, my rules. So if you’re wanting me to fix up this car so you can get back to your day, then you’ll be fetching me the tyres, gottit?” 

“It’s his car.” Cor retorts, his eyes narrowing as he nods towards Regis. “You have to fix it regardless of whatever I do or don’t do.” 

He’s got guts, Cid’ll give him that. He crosses his arms himself, still staring the kid down. He’s gonna give Regis shit for this later, because he’s having way too much fun watching them. “Oh, really?” 

For the first time, Cor hesitates. His gaze flickers over to Regis, but when no support seems incoming, he falters momentarily. Cid almost grins, thinking the kid’s about to cave, but to his great surprise, Cor squares his shoulders and turns back to him.

“Yes, really.” He insists, his voice amazingly stern. 

“Reggie, care to explain to your little friend how wrong he is?” Cid asks lightly. 

The kid sneers at him, and Cid refrains from smiling smugly. He’s clearly getting under the kid’s skin, which is a step in the right direction as far as he’s concerned.

“Cor, he will not hesitate to break my baby.” Regis admits, albeit with humour in his tone. 

“Whose baby?!” Cid growls, turning to glare at Regis momentarily. The Prince ducks his head and corrects himself. 

“Fine, _our_ baby. We both love this car, but he will refuse to repair it just to prove a point.” 

“More like it.” Cid huffs. 

This car had been their joint project for many years, and they both adored it. Cid has so many fond memories of this dork of a prince sneaking down to the garage to watch Cid work on the car. Mors hadn’t much appreciated his son being returned to the Citadel covered in motor oil and engine grease, but he’d only ever confronted Cid about it once. Once had been enough. The King might technically be his boss, but he doesn’t cow Cid, and Cid had had exactly zero problems defending Regis and putting Mors in his place for his shitty approaches to parenting. As he’d promised when the then ten-year-old Prince had started this project with him, the custom one-of-a-kind regalia had been ready and waiting for him on his sixteenth birthday, just shy of three years ago. But now it’s coming up to a year since he last drove it, since Cid had adamantly refused to let him take it to war. The mechanic can barely believe it’s only a month off being a year since he’d waved Regis and Clarus off and prayed to the gods they came back in one piece. 

They’ve come back, not only in one piece, but plus one little shit of a teenager, it seems. 

“I don’t care.” Cor says unrepentantly, his breath visible in the cold February air. “You’re not in charge of me, I don’t have to listen to you.”

“Kid, I won’t ask nicely again.” Cid warns, raising an eyebrow expectantly. 

“Fine, I won’t have to waste my breath saying no again.” He returns with a nonchalant shrug. 

With a sigh, Cid strides over to the kid and soundly clips him around the ear. He doesn’t like having to follow through on threats, but there’s no way he’s about to let this tiny little slip of a boy get away with sassing him like that. 

The kid puts one hand to his ear, and looks between Regis and Cid in outrage. 

“Go get the tyres.” Cid grunts, turning back to the car. 

“Fuck you!” The kid spits at his back. 

“Cor.” Regis admonishes, but his warning is ignored. 

“Parents didn’t teach ya many manners, did they, kid?” Cid asks lowly, setting about checking the engine. Cid considers himself a fairly easy-going man, but one thing he absolutely cannot stand is children swearing!

“Don’t talk about my parents like you know shit about my life!” Cor snaps angrily. 

_Oh,_ okay _._ Cid’s dealt with enough brooding teenagers to realise that that kind of retort screams mommy and/or daddy issues. Makes sense, really, when he thinks about it. There’s got to be some kind of shitty situation between them, otherwise any decent parent would make sure their son is in school, not running around in the Crownsguard at fourteen. 

It’s got to be pretty shit for him, so Cid relents slightly. “Kid, don’t swear, or else.” 

“Or else what?” He mutters sullenly.

“Or else I’ll clip your other ear!” Cid growls. “Now go get those damn tyres before I clip it anyway.” 

With a huff and a final glare, Cor turns and heads into the back of the garage. Triumphant, Cid turns back to the regalia and finally starts servicing it.

“Phew,” Regis sighs, leaning against the side of the bonnet and watching Cid work, resting his chin on one fist. “For a moment there I thought he wasn’t going to back down.” 

“He’s a feisty one, ain’t he?” Cid grunts, as he checks the pistons over with a careful eye. “Ya sure know how to pick ‘em Reggie.” 

“Yes, well. He walked up to me as bold as brass and told me off for following my father’s orders.” Regis shrugs. 

Cid snorts a laugh. “So what gives with his parents?” 

“Thought I told you not to talk about my parents.” Cor sneers, dropping two tyres by Cid’s feet. 

“An’ why’s that kid? Sore spot for ya?” Cid asks, not looking at the kid. 

“Just shut up.” He mutters, and goes off to get the other tyres.

Regis watches him go with a worried frown.

“He won’t talk about them at all.” He admits quietly. “Sometimes I wonder if he isn’t an orphan.” 

“Wouldn’t surprise me. Then again, you don’t always have to have lost ‘em for them to not be there.” Cid murmurs. He hears Regis let out a heavy sigh. 

“True.” Regis would know about that more than anyone. Mors has neglected him since the moment he’d arrived in the world. “He just seems so _serious_ all the time. It’s like he never got to be a kid.” 

“He probably didn’t.” Cid remarks. “He’s a commoner, ain’t he? Some of ‘em have it rough.” 

“Not that rough, though.” Regis replies, frowning. 

Cid pauses in his work, and looks up at Regis very slowly. 

“Yes, that rough, Regis.” He says, voice dangerously low. He loves Regis, but he is blind to the poverty and misery that most people live in and contend with all their lives. Cid is a commoner himself, but lucky enough to come from a reasonably well-off family. But he grew up watching the less fortunate families, and he knows just how bad it can be. Regis may have his own issues with his father - and Cid doesn’t blame him in the slightest - but he’s still privileged beyond belief, and his existence up until going to war has been pretty sheltered.

Perhaps him befriending this Cor kid would do him some good, if it will help him realise just how poorly-treated some people in Lucis are. 

Cor drops the other two tyres and then slinks off to stand by Regis.

“Happy now, old man?” He asks scathingly, and Cid can’t help but smile. 

“Immensely.” He replies, and reaches over to clap a hand on Cor’s shoulder. “Thanks, kid.” 

Cor shrugs him off, muttering something under his breath. Cid leaves him be and focuses on the car. 

Regis chatters to both of them while he works, getting half-hearted responses at best from Cor. Cid’s all too familiar with the teenage code for ‘leave me alone’ - gods know Mid was exactly the same at that age - so he gets Regis to help him change the tyres so the poor kid can lick his wounds in silence. They’ve gotten through two when Cor seems to tire of his sulking, and sidles over to them both. Cid enlists his help with holding and fetching tools, and it’s not long before the kid starts asking questions. _Just the same as young Reggie_ , Cid thinks to himself with a smile as he begins to explain the basics of how cars run. By the time the car’s serviced, Cor’s actually smiling as they talk and joke. 

“Thanks for your help today, kid.” Cid says, and presses a few gil into the palm of Cor’s hand as he shakes it. When he releases him, he ruffles the kid’s hair, and laughs when Cor bats his hand away. 

“I’m not a kid.” Cor sighs, rolling his eyes. He slides the money into his pocket immediately though.

“Yer a kid to me.” Cid grins.

“Yeah well, that’s only because you’re ancient.” He snarks. 

Cid and Regis both burst into laughter, and from the corner of his eye, Cid sees a pleased smile curving the kid’s lips upwards. Bless him, the kid just needs someone to be an adult for him so he can be a kid. Well, if there’s no one else stepping up to the plate, Cid supposes he’ll just have to do it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tough love is simply that Cid gives Cor a clip round the earhole for not doing as he's told. I'm not actually sure if that's a worldwide thing or a British thing, but it's literally like a flick to the ear that stings for about three seconds then fades. It's meant to be something that startles rather than hurts.


	5. The King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Just one more chapter to go, yay! I'll get it posted as soon as it's all finished which will hopefully be in the next few days. 
> 
> PLEASE HEED THE UPDATED TAGS - MORS LUCIS CAELUM IS NOT A NICE MAN!!! (details in the end notes) Other than that, please enjoy!

Cor isn’t meant to meet the King. Only the most high-ranking Crownsguards are allowed the honour of guarding him, and having only worked in the guard for little over a year, Cor definitely isn’t one of them. And even if he was, he wouldn’t be posted to guard him anyway, because Regis has - essentially - called dibs on him. 

Cor certainly isn’t meant to run face-first into his chest. 

“Fuck!” He hisses, clapping one hand over his now-hurting nose as he backs blindly away from whoever he’s just run into. His head is spinning, bright dots dancing in his vision. He must’ve hit armour. “I’m so sorry.” 

“I should hope you are.” A cold voice says calmly. 

Cor blinks away the rest of the blur in his vision, and looks up to see Mors Lucis Caelum and his Shield, Aleam Amicitia, both glaring daggers at him. The King is wearing a plain dark suit, with his iconic black and gold-filigree armour fitted over his left arm. _Yep, that’s definitely what I ran into,_ Cor thinks distantly, but the pain of impact has been pushed to the back of his thoughts. 

He gulps, and he swears he can feel his heart begin to beat double-time. He’s going to be in so. Much. Trouble. 

Even by his standards.

“Your Majesty.” He breathes out, silently praying for the ground to just swallow him up. Trust him to run into the only person on the whole damn continent who outranks Regis. 

“What is your name, guard?” Lord Amicitia growls menacingly, and Cor struggles to suppress a flinch. 

“Leonis, my Lord.” He replies unevenly. Cor forces himself not to look away from the Lord, even if the pure fury on his face makes him feel an uncharacteristic need to hide. 

“I should have known.” The Lord mutters under his breath. Fuck, he hadn’t realised his reputation as an upstart had worked its way higher than the Marshal. 

“This is the guard my son has picked?!” Mors spits, his expression shifting from anger to incredulity. 

Cor bites back a scathing reply. He gets the impression that Mors will not appreciate his willingness to speak his mind like Regis does. 

“I did tell him I do not approve of his choice.” Lord Amicitia says tonelessly, still looking at Cor. Cor feels his face heat up, but he still makes himself hold his tongue. 

“Let’s hope you are more attentive in your duties.” 

“I am, your Majesty.” Cor says instantly. 

He is. Okay, so maybe he shouldn’t have let his mind wander as he walked around the Citadel on an errand, but it was also a corner! How is he meant to see around corners? It’s not like they’re issued with periscopes!

Cor knows better than to try and argue his case. 

“I didn’t ask you, did I?” The King says sharply, and this time, Cor does flinch. Hedging his bets, he stays silent and looks at the ground, falling into a parade rest stance. 

“Your Majesty, I’m afraid we do not have time to deal with this… incompetency, right now.” Lord Amicitia says, with a sneer in his voice. 

“Oh, the council can fucking wait!” Mors snaps, and takes two quick steps towards Cor, easily bridging the gap between them. Cor backs up until he can’t anymore. With the cold wall pressing into his back and Mors still advancing, he feels a slight flicker of fear curl through his chest. It was an accident, surely the King isn’t going to do anything too drastic? 

Cor is forced to look up to keep eye contact as Mors comes to a halt a few inches away from him. 

“You are going to regret this.” Mors snarls, leaning in close to Cor’s face. His eyes - so similar to Regis’ - are burning with anger, and Cor feels his heart leap into his throat at the words. 

“Your Majesty, please, it was an accident! I’m sorry.” Cor says, a small trace of panic in his tone. An expression flickers across the King’s face, but it’s gone again before Cor can read it. He does see a hard glint appear in his eyes, and he tries to quell the nerves it brings. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Mors shift slightly, drawing his arm back, and braces for impact, but it doesn’t come. Instead, a familiar voice calls out from further down the corridor, and relief sets in so quickly it’s dizzying. 

“Cor, there you are!” Regis calls out.

Cor risks looking to Regis, and sees him and Clarus walking briskly towards them. Regis has a pleasant smile plastered on his face, but Cor can see the concern in the tightness of his eyes. Behind him, Clarus’ face is a blank canvas, but his eyes are pouring over the scene. Mors is still towering over him, although he’s straightened so he’s no longer in Cor’s face. Just behind him, Lord Amicitia is pinching the bridge of his nose in one hand, his shoulders tense. 

“Father,” Regis greets quietly as he reaches them. 

“Regis,” Mors turns away from Cor to sneer at his son. “I will not allow this guard to be your personal guard! He is completely-”

“Capable of doing his job.” Regis cuts him off. “If you don’t mind, father, he was running a time-sensitive errand for me.” 

From his front-row view, Cor can see the nerves play across the Prince’s face as he meets his father’s icy glare evenly. The tension escalates a notch, and Cor hardly dares to breathe as they all wait to see whether Prince or King will back down. 

The silence is deafening.

He just barely sees Mors shift before a resounding smack echoes through the corridor. Regis’ head snaps towards him with the sound, his eyes closed and his teeth worrying his lip at the impact. 

Cor lets out a small gasp, and shifts forward slightly, but he doesn’t dare come between Regis and his father. Besides, it would be too little, too late, really, and Clarus isn’t making a move to protect him either. In fact, he looks positively bored. There’s only the slightest hint of anger in his eyes, and Cor only sees it because he’s looking for it. He looks on, eyes wide, hardly daring to breathe. _That did not just happen!_ Regis takes a measured breath in, then meets his father’s hard stare again evenly. 

Mors sneers. “Pretty pathetic guard who cannot even stop you getting slapped.” 

“You and I both know that’s not a fair test of his abilities.” Regis says with no inflection whatsoever. 

“That could have been a bullet. I could have had a weapon drawn.” 

“Would you harm me, father?” Regis asks, cocking his head to one side. It screams fake innocence, but there’s also some kind of underlying resignation in his tone. “I don’t doubt that Cor would not have hesitated had that action come from someone who poses a real threat to my safety.” 

Mors growls and takes a step, forwards, his face mere centimetres from Regis, but Regis holds his ground. He merely lifts his chin a little in response, jutting it out in a way that is somehow both defiant and complacent. 

“He has one week to prove himself. And if so much as one hair on your pathetic head is out of place, _son_ , he’s out of a job.” The King spits menacingly. Then, he begins walking again, forcibly shoving Regis out of his path. 

Regis stumbles, but he recovers himself and watches Mors stride away, face unreadable. Aleam follows after him with a long sigh. 

Silence falls as the three of them listen to the King’s footsteps fade into the distance. 

“Regis,” Cor whispers shakily, eyes still wide. He takes a step away from the wall, but stops short of going to the Prince’s side. The entire side of Regis’ face has turned red, and if Cor looks closely, he can make out the hand-shaped impression on his cheek. That’s going to bruise horribly. Cor finds himself unable to look away from it, even when he feels Regis’ gaze turn to him. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t... I should have-”

“It’s alright, Cor. I was expecting it.” Regis sighs despondently. 

Cor eventually manages to tear his eyes from Regis’ cheek. His expression is still indecipherable, but at the very least, he doesn’t look mad. Cor still swallows uneasily. 

“He didn’t hit _you_ , did he?” Clarus asks, looking over Cor with concern. Cor shakes his head, unable to form words. He knows some parents hit their children - gods, he’s been hit by Tristis more times than he cares to count - but he’d never thought that _Regis_ would… 

Aren’t society’s rich and elite meant to have _better_ lives than the rest of them?

Guilt coils in Cor’s gut. 

Regis gives a half-smile, crossing the space between them. He nudges Cor’s shoulder gently. “Being a prince isn’t so privileged as it’s made out to be, eh?” 

He doesn’t sound mad at all, in fact there's even a little humour in his tone, but Cor still flinches. Regis doesn’t let him stew for long though. He places a firm hand on Cor’s shoulder and steers him down the corridor. 

“What happened, anyway?” He asks, his arm dropping away from Cor once it’s obvious Cor is going to follow him. “He’s a twat, but he usually makes sure he has a reason to lash out like that.” 

Hearing the prince trash-talk his own father is disconcerting as hell, even after what he’s just witnessed. 

“I walked into him.” Cor says slowly. “I was literally turning around the corner, so I didn’t see him until it was too late.” 

“So it was his armour that gave you that mark.” Clarus sighs, sounding somewhat relieved. Cor frowns at him, and Clarus pokes at the centre of his forehead in answer. 

A fresh wave of pain rolls through his head. With the escalating stress of the situation, Cor had kind of forgotten that the collision had hurt. 

“Ow.” He says belatedly, pressing at his forehead tenderly. “It’s marked?” 

“Barely.” Regis answers. “It’ll probably be faded in ten minutes.” 

His guilt renews and he internally cringes. His face will look fine in a few minutes, but Regis’ is going to stay that way for a while. He’s going to need a potion before he’s seen in public, and Cor could have, not to mention _should_ have, prevented it.

“Regis, I’m really sorry.” Cor repeats his earlier words, turning away from Clarus to watch Regis as they arrive at Wesk’s office. 

“It’s fine.” Regis dismisses him, yanking the door open with much more force than necessary and stepping inside. 

Cor goes to follow him, but Clarus cuts into his path. He fixes Cor with a stern look. 

“I trust I don’t have to tell you to keep your mouth shut about that.” He murmurs, eyes searching. 

“Clarus, I-”

“Regis isn’t mad at you. He knew Mors would do that if he went to bat for you. Take it as a compliment that he stood up for you anyway.” Clarus says, turning on his heel and leaving Cor in the doorway, feeling even more guilt-riddled than before. 

* * *

Three days later sees them at some piffling charity dinner that Regis is expected to appear at. Barely an hour into the all-evening event, and Cor is bored to tears. He’s standing by the wall at the side of the room, Regis and Clarus seated in front of him. He’s got a great vantage point here, the whole room spread before him. Cor lets his gaze wander, trying to block out the droning voice of whatever glorified dignitary is speaking. The speeches are dragging on and on, and it wouldn’t be half so bad if Cor couldn’t already smell the food he won’t be eating with them. It’s nearing seven, and he’s _starving_. Usually he’d be at home by now, and cooking his own dinner, but no, no, instead here he is, and here he is staying until nine thirty, when this thing ends. His dad is surely going to swing for him when he gets back, since he won’t cook anything for himself.

Cor’s attention is drawn to the back of the room by a flicker in the shadows. He frowns, unable to pin down the source of the movement. He watches for a minute, but nothing else catches his eye. With a bitten back sigh, Cor resettles his focus on the long table. 

“...And so, if you would all charge your glasses, and join me in a toast. To Prince Regis - the future of our kingdom!” 

Light glints off the champagne flute the portly man holds. Cor winces, temporarily blinded by the reflection.

“To Prince Regis!” The crowd echoes, a sea of arms obscuring Cor’s view.

He blinks rapidly, trying to clear his vision. Did something just move back there? No, a trick of the light, perhaps?

“Thank you, Lord Iners.” Regis says, standing to give his own speech. Cor takes a step away from his post, watching the shadows at the back of the room. He squints, ducking his head. _There again!_ “And thank you to Lord Stul- _oof!_ ” 

Cor and Regis hit the ground in a tangle of limbs just as a gunshot sounds through the air, and a bullet hits the back of the chair Regis had been standing in front of. Screams erupt all around them, and Cor lies winded, Regis on top of him. He’d had to grab him from behind and drag him down, and Regis’ full weight had landed on him. Another shot rings through the air and Cor just hears the tinkle of magic in the rest of the cacophony. A transparent wall shimmers between them and the direction of the shooter, and Cor sees Clarus standing between them. He looks back at them, his concern masked behind anger. 

“Get up! We need to get out of here!” He yells. Cor lies still while Regis gets up, then scrambles to his feet, covering Regis’ back as Clarus finds them a secure exit route. He draws his katana, a fierce scowl on his face. People are running everywhere, weapons have been drawn, and the other Crownsguards that had been scattered around the room are engaging in fights. The entire room is in disarray, and there’s blood and bodies starting to appear on the ground. Whoever fired the first shot, they aren’t alone. 

They get halfway across the room, pushing and shoving past panicked lord and ladies, but it’s not long before another shot goes off just over their heads. Cor turns, searching the crowd behind him. It doesn’t take long to spot him.

The man is standing, poised in a perfect shooting stance, clad head to toe in tactical gear. Their face is completely hidden by a helmet with a black visor, and in their hands is a silver handgun, smoke still rising from the barrel as he takes aim at them again. 

Cor growls, and swings his katana. He strides towards him, not rushing at all. His grip is steady, and despite the chaos reigning all around him, he feels amazingly calm as he advances. He can hear Regis call his name, and Clarus’ deeper voice swearing, probably as he pulls Regis away. The harsh ringing of metal on metal sings in his ear, and smoke fills the air. Cor takes note of it all, then puts it to one side, focusing solely on his target. 

The man fires at him once, twice, but the shots miss, and when Cor gets closer to him, he switches weapons, drawing a longsword. Cor smiles grimly. He can take down any old fucker with a longsword. 

Their blades meet midair with a loud clang, and then they begin. In a flurry of moves Cor parries the man’s strikes - so obvious, so _predictable_ , just like those he trains with - and gets in close. Close he can work with. His katana is shorter than a longsword, and it gives Cor the upper hand, because the other man cannot hope to attack him successfully as long as he stays close. The would-be assassin’s blocks are clumsy and heavy-handed. There is strength behind every move, but it’s embarrassingly obvious that he is not too used to close combat, and even less accustomed to defending himself rather than attacking. Cor loses himself to the pattern of the movements, falling back on the katas he learned in training, and instinct. His blood sings, his nerves alight as he battles, and he grins viciously. 

There’s nothing like a near-death situation to make him feel alive. 

Seemingly as quickly as it started, it’s over. Cor steps left, and the man lunges right, and just like that, Cor has the perfect angle to turn, and plunge his katana deep into the man’s chest, through a weak point in his tac vest. Blood splatters from the wound when Cor draws his blade back, and for a moment Cor is thrown from the present time, his thoughts spiralling back to a muddy battlefield, ears ringing with explosions and screams, corpses under his feet and the cloying smell of dried blood in his nostrils, death in the air and an army of niff MTs just trying to get close, to get that one shot, _one shot that would kill him -_

The man makes a gurgling sound in his throat as he collapses, landing face-down near his feet. Cor blinks, then takes stock of his surroundings.

Other guards are still fighting, but there are more of them standing than attackers. Cor looks back to the man in front of him, but he doesn’t even need to check to know he won’t be getting back up ever again. 

“Cor, damn it! _Over here!”_

Hearing his name being yelled over the din, he whirls round and his gaze lands on Regis, standing by an exit and quite clearly waiting for him. He can see Clarus just in front of him, trying to push him through the doorway, but Regis is refusing to budge, struggling against his Shield.

Cor checks the room, but his path is clear, so he runs towards them, and once he’s close, they’re moving through the doorway into the back room and then out onto the streets. He breathes in cool air, sheathing his katana as Clarus herds them towards the regalia, and as soon as they’re close the Shield bundles them both into the backseat, then gets in and drives. It’s only when they start moving that the reality of what just happened hits Cor full force. 

“What the fucking hell were you thinking, swaggering over to a shooter like you’re some kind of invincible?!” Regis yells, glaring at him from the other side of the backseat. 

“Keep your head down, Regis!” Clarus growls, scowling furiously at them in the rearview mirror. “And don’t tell him off for doing his fucking job, I don’t care how recklessly he approached it!” 

“Doing his job?!” Regis shrieks, sinking down into his seat so his head is not visible to potential pursuers. “His job isn’t to get himself fucking killed!” 

“No, my job is to keep you alive!” Cor spits back, twisting to check for telltale signs of headlights following them. “You’re fucking welcome, by the way.” 

Regis makes an enraged sound, but he doesn’t retort.

The rest of the drive to the Citadel is silent. 

* * *

“You’re still here, are you?” 

Cor bristles as he sees Regis’ frame slump fractionally. He’d never realised that the relationship between the King and Prince is so fractured. Then again, no one in the kingdom knows it. Dissension between them is not something they want to broadcast at the best of times, let alone while they’re at war with the empire.

Still, Cor desperately wants to intervene. Regis nearly died five days ago - would have been shot through the heart if Cor hadn’t yanked him out the way in time - and this is the first time Mors has seen him since then, and all he can say is _that?_ _!_

It’s as bad as his relationship with his own father. What Cor takes from that observation is that he knows exactly how Regis feels, and he might be relatively new to this whole friendship thing, but he’s pretty sure that they’re meant to help each other feel better. Question is, how?

Maybe he can ask Cid, later, what will cheer Regis up.

“Yes, father. I thought you would want an account of what happened at the charity dinner.” Regis answers, and Cor thinks it really is remarkable how little hurt Regis lets leak into his tone. 

Mors shifts his weight on the throne, and turns to look at Regis fully. His eyes are ablaze with anger, and his lips curl into a derisive sneer. 

“I know what happened at the dinner.” He says, voice as cold as the marble throne room they’re standing in. “You failed to notice a threat, and had to have a _child_ save you, you worthless, pathetic piece of shit!” 

Spittle flies from the King’s mouth as he yells at his son and his retainers. He leans forward in his seat, staring at Regis with utter contempt. Cor tenses himself under the intensity of the glare, and his heart kicks up a notch as the words sink in. He doesn’t think that he lets any kind of expression slip - after all, he’s been hiding his real age for a year and a bit already - but Mors clearly sees something on either Regis’ or Clarus’ faces. 

“And don’t think for a second I haven’t realised that the only reason you’ve selected that baby as your guard is because he’s two years too young to do the damn job!” 

At that, Cor does blanch. The room falls into silence, everyone waiting with bated breath to see what Mors is going to do or say next. Cor is on tenterhooks. If he loses this job, he’ll have to resort to illegal fighting again to keep a roof over his head. That’s if Mors only decides to fire him. He could choose to highlight his situation to the authorities, which will end up with him being forced into a group home, probably outside Insomnia. Or, hell, he could have him arrested for falsifying documentation and forging a signature, and he'd wind up in prison!

Mors seems to know that he’s holding the power in this situation, if the satisfied gleam in his eye is anything to go by. The king watches the three of them for a long minute, not doing anything to hide his disdain. 

“You will never make a good king. Get the fuck out of my sight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, so in this chapter, we get outright child abuse (sort of?), as Mors slaps Regis. I say sort of child abuse because Regis is technically an adult in this fic, but eh. He's still Mors' child, so it's still child abuse.


	6. The Embarrassment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter!!!!!! A huge thank you to everyone who's read, left kudos, and commented here, I appreciate each and every one of you! This is the +1, kind of. 
> 
> I will say, I'm not quite happy with the ending of this chapter, but I can't put my finger on what I want to change, so I'm just going to leave it as is. This is partly the reason that it's ended up so long, but oh well. Extra thanks to TheDarkestDandelion for helping me finally end it, and putting up with my waffling in the meantime, you're the best!
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!

At the ripe young age of fourteen, Cor Leonis has got to be one of the most stern-faced, serious, uptight people that Regis has ever known. 

After just six months of knowing him, Regis can tell that Cor’s seriousness is mostly a mask, expertly worn to fend off assholes who just want to hassle him. When he’s given the chance to be, he’s just a regular teenage boy. The problem is, he rarely gets that chance. Of course, one could argue that he’d brought that upon himself, really, by joining the Crownsguard so young, but Regis sometimes wonders if there is something else to it as well. He knows Cid believes that is the case, but Regis daredn’t ask Cid about it in any detail. Talking to Cid about rough living and hard childhoods always ends up being a lecture about how privileged Regis is. He is, _of course_ he is. He knows that, but Cid seems to think that Regis is oblivious to the extent of it. He begs to differ, but Cid just gives him an indulgent chuckle and changes the subject. 

“Hey, I want to see _my son_ , get the fuck out my way!” 

Regis hears his father sigh, and can’t hold back an eye roll himself. They’re meant to be going to an event, and this strange man has appeared at the gates screaming and shouting about his son, who has supposedly been kidnapped and is being kept in the Citadel, or something. He keeps demanding to see the boy, and seems to be adamant about not leaving until he does. The man’s smart though - since he’s on the other side of the gates, he’s not technically _in_ the Citadel grounds, so the guards can’t make him leave. But he has been deemed volatile enough to pose a threat to Mors and Regis as they leave. Just as well he’s holding stuff up though, as it’s giving his friends time to get here. Clarus and Wesk had rushed Cor out of sight of the King after seeing his face bruised and lip split from training. It would only have pissed Mors off. 

_“A joke that went too far_.” Cor had said by way of explanation, but they know better. They’ve seen the way the other guards treat him, and they’ve noticed that the Marshal is always happy to turn a blind eye. It’s nothing a potion won’t fix - which is what Clarus and Wesk are seeing to - but that’s not the point. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Mors spits. “Move!” 

He pushes past the Crownsguards at the gate, stopping a few feet away from the man. 

“Nobody has kidnapped your son, alright?” He tells the man slowly, like he’s talking to dumb child. “So just go home before I have you arrested!” 

Regis facepalms. Another dazzling show of diplomacy from Mors Lucis Caelum CXII. 

“What’s got your panties in a twist?” He hears Clarus mutter.

Regis looks up to find his Shield, advisor, and Cor coming to a halt by his side. Cor’s face is completely healed, and there’s only a miniscule amount of blood on his uniform. Thankfully it’s not really noticeable on the black material. 

“This guy,” Regis sighs, pointing towards the man still stubbornly trying to stare down his father. “He reckons we’ve kidnapped his son and we’re keeping him hostage or something. Says he won’t leave until he’s seen him.” 

It’s utterly ridiculous. His father might not be a great king, but he’s not a kidnapper, for fuck’s sake. If the man had any common sense he’d know that. Then again, he seems to be too inebriated for anything like actually using his brain. He has greasy, unkempt dark brown hair that falls well past his shoulders, and blue-grey eyes that seem eerily familiar the more Regis looks at them. His clothes are stained and soiled, and ill-fitting at best. The skin of his face seems to be tinged red, and all his words are coming out half-slurred.

Regis purses his lips as he considers the man. He’s obviously a drunkard, but what the hell has made him think that they’ve kidnapped his child is rather beyond him. He’s about to say as much to his friends when a soft curse catches his attention.

“Oh, fuck my life.” 

Clarus sputters, and Regis turns to Cor, eyebrows raised and opening his mouth to ask where the hell that had come from, to see the teen glaring mulishly at the man who is still arguing back and forth with his father. 

He’s not sure if the man’s brave or foolish, in all honesty. 

“Cor, what-?” Wesk begins to ask, but Cor cuts him off just as quietly as he’d sworn. 

“Excuse me, I have to go deal with that moronic excuse for a man.” 

Regis glances at Clarus, but he looks as perplexed as Regis feels. Wesk shrugs, frowning at Cor’s back. They can only watch as Cor all but marches over to the man. Curiosity more than piqued, Regis follows after him, stopping short of his father’s side. 

“What are you doing here?” Cor demands through gritted teeth.

“I need money.” The man slurs, turning to look at Cor expectantly. 

“For fuck’s sake,” Cor sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Seriously?! You couldn’t have waited til I’m not working?!” 

Cor doesn’t get an answer, and for a long minute, there’s a strained silence between them. Cor shifts his weight, eyes narrowing as he looks at the man. 

As Regis watches the exchange, he suddenly realises why the man’s eyes looked so familiar to him. They are almost identical to Cor’s, and it hits Regis that this idiot in front of them is Cor’s father.

“I left you money on the counter, what happened to that?” Cor asks eventually, still glaring.

“‘S gone.” Comes the toneless reply.

“ _Gone?!_ ” Cor shrieks, leaning forwards slightly, somehow managing to refrain himself from stepping towards the man. “You’ve spent a hundred gil in a morning?!”

“Does it fucking matter? Just give me more!” His father roars back, throwing his arms out wide behind him in a typical who-gives-a-fuck manner.

Regis watches, mouth hanging open in shock, as Cor’s face shutters. His expression could’ve been carved out of stone. 

“No.”

Cor’s father rolls his eyes, crossing his arms defensively. “Oh fine. _Please_ give me more.”

“ _No_. Go home.” Cor answers, his voice void of emotion.

“You listen here, lad! I am your father-”

“No, you listen here!” Cor spits, glowering. “I’ve given you enough money already! If you want more, go get a fucking job instead of leeching off me!” 

He visibly reigns in his anger, standing taller and then straightening his uniform jacket. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to work.” 

Quick as a flash, the man lashes out, and there’s a sickening crack as his fist connects with Cor’s jaw. Cor’s head snaps to one side with the impact. “Don’t you yell at me lad!”

Regis’ hands curl into fists involuntarily, and he snarls low in the back of his throat. Hot anger curls through his gut. How dare this asshole call himself a parent?! What a bastard! No wonder Cor barely knows how to be a fucking child when his dad treats him like that! Is it really any wonder at all that Cor is so sullen and serious all the time? The more he thinks about it, the uglier a picture is painted in his head. Maybe Cid has a point somewhere, about how privileged he is, because he sure as hell can’t wrap his head around the horrible idea that this treatment might be Cor’s normal. _At least most of the time Mors is happy to just ignore me_ , he thinks to himself bitterly. _And when he isn't, it's only a smack, never a proper punch!_ Regis bristles, just itching to punch that fucker right back.

Much to his surprise though, before he can so much as move, Mors steps in between them and grabs a fistful of Cor’s father’s shirt and pushes him away from Cor. The man stumbles backwards, falling to the floor in a tangle of limbs. He glares up at Mors furiously.

“You come here, claiming that we have kidnapped your son, and yet you think it’s acceptable to treat him like that?” Mors asks, looking down at the man with contempt. “You disgust me.”

That’s fucking rich, coming from him! Regis suppresses a scathing remark of his own. He looks over his shoulder to hide his expression, and sees Wesk give him a fleeting, sympathetic smile, and Clarus has one eyebrow raised in disbelief. Well, at least he’s not the only one aware of the sheer fucking irony of that statement leaving Mors’ mouth. 

Cor takes a step forwards, standing next to the king. His arms are folded across his chest, and the anger in his gaze increases tenfold as he rubs tenderly at his jaw. 

“Please forgive him, your Majesty. He’s drunk.” 

Cor deserves an award for the amount of venom in his voice. 

“I don’t care if he’s drunk, Leonis.” Mors answers him coldly, not taking his eyes off Tristis. “He’s making me late.”

The man clambers to his feet unsteadily and stumbles closer to Cor. Cor’s nose wrinkles in disdain. “Just give me some reddies and I’ll get out your hair, eh?” 

Cor scoffs. “I don’t have any to give you. It’ll have to wait.” 

“Oh, well thank you very much, ungrateful brat. Bend over backwards to raise you all these years, keep a roof over your head, kept you off the streets, and fed you, and cleaned you. Held you when you were a baby, and this is the thanks I get?” Tristis rants, gesticulating wildly. Through the whole rant, Cor only sighs and turns his face away, eyebrows raising in disbelief. 

“I still don’t have anything for you.” Cor says, sounding bored. 

“Oh, fucking brilliant!” He huffs, then stalks away from the Citadel, still chuntering under his breath. As soon as he’s out of earshot, Cor turns to face Mors, his anger dissolving into apprehension.

“Your Majesty, I-”

“I don’t want to hear it.” Mors sighs, holding up a hand in Cor’s face. “I am late enough as it is.” 

With that, he goes back to his car and ducks into it, Aleam following close behind him. 

Cor takes a deep breath then lets it out, making his way back towards Regis. He’s refusing to meet their eyes. 

“That’s your father?” Clarus scoffs, derision clear in his tone. He’s watching Cor softly though, with concern. Not that Cor sees it. 

“What of it?” Cor asks through gritted teeth. His eyes narrows as he scowls up at them, but there’s a dusting of red over his cheeks that belies his embarrassment. 

Regis can hardly blame him. At least he and his father are prominent enough public figures that Mors can’t treat him like that in public. 

“Nothing, Cor.” Regis assures him quickly. Cor is starting to become like a little brother to him, and Regis generally enjoys his company day to day, but by gods when he’s upset about something, his mood gets foul. “Only, I have to ask - does he usually get pissed by the early afternoon and then hit you?” 

At the reminder of his father’s right hook, Cor rubs his cheek tenderly. His expression grows even more sullen, but when he answers, his voice is soft. There’s a vulnerable quality to it that Regis has never heard before. 

“No. That’s new.”

Well, that’s something at least. 

* * * 

After the event, Regis is completely bushed, and when they get back to his rooms, he collapses on his couch with a long sigh. Wesk settles himself in one of the armchairs, and Clarus joins him on the couch, cricking his neck with a satisfied groan. 

Cor hovers between the seats, looking around uncertainly. The event had unsurprisingly run over, and it’s well past the time his shift should have ended. 

“You don’t have to stay, Cor, but you’re more than welcome to if you just want to hang out for a bit.” Regis says with a soft smile. 

Even if Cor’s father doesn’t hit him all the time, Regis can’t imagine that Cor’s home life is any kind of cosy after what he’d seen and heard earlier. Unlike him, Cor probably doesn’t have his own space where he can relax and retreat away from his father. 

Cor still stands just beside the furniture, biting his lip and shuffling his weight. It’s a rare show of nervousness from him, and it makes Regis’ heart pang. He wouldn’t be in any rush to go back to that man, but he knows from his own experiences that putting off dealing with him might just make it worse in the long run. 

“Cid’s on his way over. It’s been a while since you’ve seen him.” Regis adds. 

He’s rather hoping Cor will opt to stay, not just because Cid has been pestering him recently about how Cor’s doing. They can all tell that Cor hasn’t had many - if any - friends before, and he’s still a bit distant from them. It’s painfully obvious that he doesn’t know where the boundaries lie, and Regis has been trying to get Cor to realise that staying after work to relax is totally acceptable. And if Regis can offer Cor a safe space to just be himself at the same time, then it’s a win-win in his book. 

At the mention of Cid, something in Cor’s expression changes, and he nods to himself before heading over to the other armchair. Regis shoots him a grin, and Cor smiles back at him. The four of them sit in a comfortable silence for a while. Regis watches the clock on his mantle tick away half an hour, letting the repetitive quiet noise lull his frayed senses. 

Cid doesn’t even knock before he yanks the door open and walks in. He immediately heads over to the couch, shoving Regis into the middle seat with ease. He goes with only a token resistance, leaning on Clarus’ shoulder while Cid gets comfortable.

“Good evening, Cid. How was your day?” Wesk says, not glancing up from the book he’s holding. 

Cid only grunts in response, crossing one leg over the other. “Nothin’ out of the ordinary, Wesk. What about y’all? How was yer fancy event?”

“Boring.” 

“Horrible.” 

Cor’s and Regis’ monotone responses overlap, and Cid chuckles lightly at them. 

“That good, huh?” He sighs. “Oh, we did have a bit of excitement, mind.” 

“Oh?” Clarus asks, tearing his attention away from his phone. Wesk lets his book fall shut and Regis turns to face Cid expectantly. 

“Yeah, hadda to toss out some drunk vagrant who came round looking for a kid. Got pretty violent when we told him we didn’t know where his kid was. I ask ya, what kinda parent don’t know where their kid is?” 

Oh, crap. 

Cor groans, holding his head in his hands. 

Regis shares a look with Wesk and Clarus. Wesk shakes his head minutely, and Regis nods his agreement. Telling Cid that Cor’s father swung for him won’t end in anything good. 

“Kid? What’s up?” Cid asks Cor, watching him with a concerned frown. 

“We met the self-same drunkard before the event, Cid.” Clarus says, pursing his lips in distaste. “And it turns out that the kid he was looking for was none other than yours truly.” 

He nods towards Cor, who still has his face hidden behind his hands. For a moment, Cid is silent, looking between Clarus and Cor incredulously. 

“What?” He eventually asks, voice hoarse. “That- that asshole-? Fucking hell, kid!” 

“Just don’t.” Cor moans into his hands. 

“Is he like that all the time?!” 

Cor shrugs, not looking at the mechanic. 

“That ain’t an answer.” Cid growls, his dislike for the drunk growing more obvious by the second. 

“Best you’re gonna get.” Cor mutters. He sighs, sinking into the seat cushions like he wanted them to swallow him whole. Honestly, Regis wouldn’t blame him if that’s exactly what he’s thinking. 

“It’s a yes or no question, kid.” Cid pushes on, and Regis notices his hand curling into a fist in his lap. 

The sight brings a sad smile to his lips. Cid’s protectiveness knows no bounds, Regis knows that. Cid’s gone up against Mors without batting an eyelid several times for him when Regis was younger; he’d bray seven bells of shit out of Cor’s father without hesitation. Regis just isn’t sure _Cor_ knows that yet. 

“No, then.” Cor snaps, finally meeting Cid’s eyes only to glare furiously at him. “What does it matter anyway? Mors isn’t any better! Stop treating me like I need extra help!” 

“I ain’t treatin’ you special, kid!” Cid retorts hotly. “I had it out with Mors for the way he treated Reggie more than once, an’ I’ll do the same for you!”

“Well I don’t need or want you to!” Cor spits back, a blush darkening his cheeks. He relents suddenly, wilting in his chair. He sighs heavily, and he sounds more world-weary than any fourteen year old should. “He’s normally fine, okay?” 

Cor’s shoulders slump even further at the silence following his statement. “He lost his job recently, that’s all, and he’s been taking it bad.” 

Cid watches him for a long minute, but Cor doesn’t offer anything else. 

Regis looks between them with a worried frown. It doesn’t sound like a lie, but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s missing something. He can’t put his finger on what though. The looks on his friends’ faces show that they’re more or less thinking the same thing.

“Well, if you’re sure it’s nothin’, kid…” Cid lets the sentence trail off, the unasked question hanging in the air. 

“Yeah, I’m sure, old man.” Cor replies with a grin. “I can take care of myself.” 

“That may be, kid, but the point is you shouldn’t have to.” Cid sighs, rubbing at his brow. 

“He’s right, you know.” Wesk intones quietly, watching Cor with a searching gaze. 

Cor just shrugs again, spreading his arms in a what-can-you-do gesture. Regis grimaces. There’s a lot he could do. He could offer Cor more money, or hell, he could buy Cor a house of his own a stone’s throw from the Citadel and not even put a dent in his wealth. He could make it so Cor would never have to deal with his father again. But he just knows that Cor would take offence if he were to offer. Cid had tried to explain it to him, something about working class pride, and having a stiff upper lip image and whatnot. 

Regis didn’t pretend to get it. It frustrated him to no end, being in a position where he could help and not being able to for fear of causing offence. It’s not like he’s offering the money out of sympathy, or like offering somehow leads to him seeing Cor as less than him. But, Cid had insisted it wouldn’t help, and Regis trusts Cid’s views when it comes to Cor. Maybe it’s just life experience, but Cid seems to understand Cor better than any of them.

“Honestly, guys, it’s nothing. I spend most of my time here, anyway.” Cor points out, rolling his eyes in exasperation. Did they not get that he didn’t want to talk about his father? Had they not figured out that this afternoon had quite possibly been one of the most embarrassing moments of his life - right up there with running into Mors face first - and he’d like to forget it sooner rather than later? 

Whatever. He can keep lying to them about his dad’s drinking until the cows come home. He’s well used to explaining it away to concerned teachers, this will be no different. He has a whole list of excuses for it that he knows will work, and that’s if they don’t buy the shtick about him losing his job. 

“That’s true.” Clarus murmurs, his focus back on his phone screen. 

Cid casts him a final disbelieving glance, but he doesn’t say anything else on the matter, and Cor gladly takes the reprieve. Another few minutes tick by in companionable silence. 

Cor lets his eyes slide shut, sitting bonelessly in the ridiculously nice chair. It’s probably the comfiest piece of furniture he’s ever sat in in his life, and after the hours he’d spent standing at the stupid event, it’s enough to lull him into a light doze. He keeps half his attention on the sounds in the room - Wesk, turning a page in his book, Clarus’ clothes rustling as he shifts, the quiet murmurs of Regis and Cid having a conversation - and the other half he turns to thinking of what he’s going to do when he gets home. 

His father is more than likely going to hit the roof with him for talking to him like that, and Cor can’t help but pull a face to himself at the thought. His best bet is to hope that Tristis found the alcohol that Cor had hidden from him and is getting drunk right now. In which case… if Cor can drag this out for another hour or so, then takes his sweet time walking home, then his dad might be passed out and have forgotten about the whole thing by the next time he sees Cor.

“Can we go somewhere?” Cor blurts out before he can talk himself out of asking. He opens his eyes, making an effort to sit up in the chair as he looks around at his friends. 

Cid’s grinning in a way that Cor has figured out means he’ll say yes to anything Cor asks right now, and Regis has a small smile on his face too. Clarus glances up at him with a frown. Wesk lets his book vanish in a flash of blue and sits up as well. 

“Did you have somewhere specific in mind, or do you just find Regis’ rooms that terrible?” He asks drily. 

Cor smirks, but before he can reply, Clarus stretches with a yawn. “Well, I could go for a drink.” 

“Mmm. Coffee.” Wesk replies. Cor’s not sure, but he thinks his tone is full of longing. 

Clarus scoffs. “I want something stronger than coffee, Armaugh.” 

Wesk probably gives himself a strain with how hard he rolls his eyes. “Think about who asked to go somewhere, Clarus, then pick a coffee bar.” 

Cid snorts as he stands up, gesturing for Cor to join them as Regis and the others follow suit. Cor smiles gratefully, and lets Cid clap a hand on his shoulder and steer him as they head towards the door. 

After Wesk’s pointed reminder of Cor's age, Clarus drives them to a quiet little cafe on the edge of the rich part of the city and they pile in and head over to the counter. 

Cor looks up and down the menu, but the place is quite fancy, and he doesn’t know what half of it is. He’s about to ask Wesk for some help, but Cid steps up to the counter without hesitation.

“Two pots o’ coffee please, can ya bring milk an’ sugar an’ whatnot over to the table?” Cid pauses, waiting for confirmation before he continues “An’ a hot chocolate, please.” 

Cor follows Regis and Clarus over to a table while Cid settles the payment. He’s never had coffee before, but he supposes he’ll just have to figure out how he likes to drink it as he goes. 

He settles next to Regis in the booth, Clarus and Wesk sitting across from them. Cid joins them later, shoving Cor closer to Regis to make room for himself. With an admittedly fond eye roll, Cor shuffles over. 

The drinks appear after a couple of minutes, and much to Cor’s surprise, Cid puts the hot chocolate in front of him. 

What? 

He frowns at it, and looks to Cid, ready to question what’s going on, but Cid’s already looking at him and chuckling lightly. 

“What, you think yer gonna get all hyper from ya first coffee on my watch, kid?” He laughs, his eyes crinkling as he grins. “Think again.” 

“Oh yes, just give him a sugar rush instead.” Clarus smirks, watching them with a small smile. “That’s much better.” 

“He ain’t gonna get a sugar rush off a hot chocolate, for Bahamut’s sake.”

“He so is, that’ll be more than his usual sugar intake for the whole year!”

“Aw, piss off Reggie. It ain’t like he never had hot chocolate before, right kid?” Cid asks, looking to him with a warm smile. 

“Bold of you to assume so.” Cor mutters, heat creeping up the back of his neck. He’s not sure why the admission leaves him feeling so embarrassed. Should he have tried this particular drink by his age? Is it that odd that he hasn’t? 

Also, how have Clarus and Regis guessed that he hasn’t had it before? 

He feels a burst of irritation at that. Damn it, why is it so obvious?!

It’s not his fault he has the good sense to not waste his money on luxuries like hot chocolate! 

“Wait, really?” Cid asks, dismayed. “Didn’t yer parents ever give you it as a little ‘un to warm ya up in the cold weather?”

“No,” Cor sighs, smiling softly to himself. He can just barely remember parts of his life before his mom died, and he can just about remember spurning a cup of warm juice for his father’s preferred cold-weather drink. He can remember both his parents being amazed that he liked it, as well. “I always asked for bovril.” 

“Bovril?!” Cid parrots, shooting him an incredulous look. 

“I like bovril.” Cor shrugs, letting a little defensiveness seep into his tone. It’s all playful though, he knows Cid isn’t really judging him. Maybe not many other young kids like bovril. He wouldn’t know. 

“What _is_ bovril?” Regis asks, a curious frown turning his lips down as he fixes his coffee. 

“It’s like that sandwich spread you hate, but stronger, isn’t it?” Clarus asks sipping at his own drink. 

“Nah, it’s beef flavoured.” Cid dismisses. He grabs the final cup and pulls one of the carafes towards him. 

“ _Beef_ flavoured?” Regis raises a sceptical eyebrow. “A _beef_ flavoured drink?” 

“Yeah.” Cor says, like it’s nothing. It is, to him. Bovril has been a staple in his life as long as he can remember. There’s always some in the cupboard at home. “It’s nice.” 

Regis gives him a dubious frown, but he doesn’t contend the statement. 

Cor sniffs at the drink in front of him. He’s heard of hot chocolate, knows what it is, but he’s never had it before. It smells good, he’ll admit, even if it seems to be only the cloying scent of sugar. 

“Try it, Cor. You’ll like it.” Wesk encourages him with a smile. He sets down his cup and watches Cor, waiting patiently. 

Cor takes a final glance at the little melted marshmallows bobbing on the top of the drink then picks it up and takes a sip. He moans, letting his eyes slide shut in bliss as the rich, sweet flavour invades his mouth and leaves a pleasant warm trail down his throat as he swallows it.

Next to him, Regis chuckles, and starts up a conversation. Cor lets the others talk around him, just enjoying their company and his drink. 

He can hardly believe that only five months ago, he was a lonely thirteen-year-old guard, with not a single person on the planet who cared about him at all. Now, here he is, surrounded by four people who not only care about him, but frequently go out of their way just to make him happy. 

If he’s honest, he doesn’t know how he feels about it. He isn’t sure if he should trust this newfound companionship. After all, he caused his mother's death, and sis dad is an alcoholic who cares more about a bottle of whisky than he ever did about him… and they're his _family!_ Family are the people who are supposed to love each other unconditionally. If his own father didn't love him for some reason, why the hell do these four even like him? What has he done to deserve their kindness? 

Cor can’t think of anything. 

Ever since he met them, he’s been unfailingly rude, made a complete and utter nuisance of himself, and he has lied. He has lied to all of them more than once about his father and his circumstances, and yet…

They don’t seem to care. It seems like all they want to do is help him and make him feel wanted, and happy. That concept is totally foreign to him. Foreign, but already he has to admit he is starting to like it; even if he doesn’t think he deserves it. 

Cor looks at each of his friends in turn, noting their happy, smiling faces in the soft glow of the lights, the jovial sounds of their laughter as they joke and snark. He smiles softly to himself, his heart feeling warm and content for the first time he can remember. 

He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve their friendship. He’ll probably never know. He’d just have to try and earn it from now on.


	7. ARTWORK BY FALSENEUN

Here is a lovely little bit of art that the amazingly talented [falseneun ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/falseneun)drew for chapters 1 and 2 of this fic! Thanks for this, it regularly makes me smile! 


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